


Happiness is a Warm Puppy

by Darke_Eco_Freak



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, Elijah Kamski & Gavin Reed are Siblings, Gavin Reed Redemption, Hank Anderson is Connor and Upgraded Connor | RK900's Parent, He also gets an emotional support asshole, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), RK900 gets an emotional support animal, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 63,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25707340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak
Summary: RK900 meets Detective Gavin Reed armed with all of Connor's memories of the man plus his own unpleasant introduction, and makes a decision then and there. He's going to be kind to Gavin Reed, because he is deviant, and he can choose to be.
Relationships: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Comments: 39
Kudos: 292





	Happiness is a Warm Puppy

**Author's Note:**

> Violence warning relates to: crime scene related deaths (both android and humans), gun violence, 
> 
> General Warning for: Android hate crimes, bombings/explosions, drugs & drug dealers, referenced (android) animal abuse, android graveyard.

When they first meet, the first day his predecessor shows him around the station that will become his workplace, RK900 automatically thinks of a Pit Bull. A attack dog trained to go for the throat. Bite and hold on, bite and tear out.

RK900 is accessing information on dog fights and canine related mortality rates before the Detective can start sneering and snarling. About another plastic prick coming to do a man’s job. About how a little riot and revolution ain’t enough to convince him there’s anything more than electricity jumping in that over-cooked brain of theirs.

About, “ _Stay outta my fucking way, plastic,”_ and stalking off to the break room.

Yes, a Pit Bull, one that’s been bred for violence and only shown violence since. The scars lend themselves to the analogy, the filed sharp edges and ragged aggression do as well. And, as his predecessor, _Connor_ , apologises for Detective Reed’s poor behaviour, RK900 opens his first investigation case into the issue.

He understands that it might not be the most professional method of resolving the problem, a disciplinary injunction perhaps, a talk with the Captain maybe? 900 understands that, but he also understands freedom, though he was neither programmed nor meant for such things. RK900 is a prototype, much the same as Connor, he was activated after the revolution was over, brought to life for the first time, already free and very confused.

Connor had understood, better than Markus and the others at New Jericho. Most androids hadn’t been designed as weapons, did not have the precise kill protocols and exemptions that the later RK models did. There is a distinction there, a commonality between 800 and 900 that makes it comforting when Connor does not comment on the interaction beyond his apology.

Connor seems to understand why RK900 does not go to the Captain about it, and why he does not cut Detective Reed to pieces with the brutal interrogation programming he’s yet to activate. Being alive was odd, almost scary, but good too, because being alive meant they could make their own choices separate from designation protocol.

RK900 could choose to be kind, so he would be. He chose to open a file on the new question of Detective Reed and carefully catalogued whatever information he could find, instead of taking aggressive action. He chose that, and wasn’t that miraculous in its own way?

* * *

In the months that follow their first meeting, no headway is made, though information is gathered. RK900 works with Connor and Hank most of the time, a few of the other Detectives rarely, only ever once with Reed. He likes his job, though crime scenes are gruesome, he was coded to analyse and react in warzones.

Blood does not faze him, and brutality is not uncommon, but 900 hardly _likes_ it. Hit and runs where the victim is left smeared along the roadway, android hate crimes drenched in blue, unpleasant sights to be sure. But 900 does not emote the way humans do, or some other models. He catalogues, analyses, and Connor does the same.

Though, privately, they interface away from curious parties and mitigate trauma response. 900 thinks it works well, and he knows today will have to be a longer than average meeting, because today is brutal. More so than usual.

A family of four lays dead in their homes, red blood stains the walls, blue blood splashed across the tiles, purple where they congeal and combine. 900 steps carefully, avoiding the larger puddles, and leaving the human officers in kitchen, analysing the main crime scene. Detective Reed remains with them, the unfortunate winner of today’s case pick.

900 listens to the Detective’s dark muttering as he makes his way through the empty house. Cataloguing everything that might be out of place, searching for the entry and exit points. The front door was unlikely for either, still locked shut when the first officers arrived on scene. The backdoor stays unlikely as well, the kitchen is too blood soaked and there would have been signs if that door were used for escape.

He heads upstairs then. Leaving the unfortunate family behind, two human parents, two android children, all with bullet holes and crushed skulls. Brutal.

The second story is quieter, neater as well. The bedroom doors are shut with no disturbance, the master, however, has a draft seeping under the door. 900 approaches it cautiously, though his sensors don’t pick up any signs of life. The perp has fled the scene undoubtedly, but caution is always advised.

He has no weapon, but he was built to be one, so he’s not worried when he opens the door. Perhaps he should have been.

A third human is spread out on the bed, posed peacefully if the gore can be ignored. One of her hands clutches at a picture frame, the other’s stiff around a knife, the weapon used to slit her own wrists. And upstairs, in this bed, the only colour is red.

Red blood drying brown into the mattress, red hair spilling across the pillows, red lips slack in death. And red light washing the room. Oh.

900 samples some of the splatter at the threshold, runs the DNA, and nods when the report returns.

“Please be advised, fifth body found, probable cause of death: Suicide. Blood evidence identifies woman as Ophelia Wilson, former wife of deceased Brandon Wilson. Possible suspect,” 900 reports impassively, as the room washes red-red-red.

He takes a moment to assess himself, his own deviant emotions. His stress level is rising and something in his stomach is heavy, though he does not eat, and his stomach cavity only houses a power source. Connor would tell him this was normal, a sensible reaction to a traumatic scene and deduction. 900 wishes Connor had been available for this scene, he hopes Connor is available back at the station.

Internal assessments take anywhere between seconds and hours, depending on cognitive load, and 900 knows this particular scan should take longer, but he cannot afford to give it longer. He ends the program before completion, straightens his jacket, and steps further into the room.

He has often heard crime scenes and the clues they hold can be misleading. The most obvious answer need not be the right one and it paid to be thorough. So thorough he will be.

Ophelia Wilson is cold when he touches her, rigor mortis already set, and breaking her fingers would be the only way to remove her clutched picture. So, he leaves her with it, and the knife, and checks the windows for the draft. One is open, and there is a ladder set against the sash.

Outside is the scraggly backyard, mostly brown in these early days before spring, and he can see footprints leading from the back fence to house. A drag mark from halfway along, as that was where the ladder used to be, and then a bag resting down on the ground. 900 makes a note to collect it, it could contain more damning evidence, perhaps a letter.

He’s been told humans liked to leave a mark, something to show they’d lived and wished to be remembered. In suicide cases, the letter could be anywhere from deliriously angry and emotional to disassociatively detached and stilted. Based on the woman’s positioning and noted relationship, a crime of passion was the most likely happenstance and a note was expected.

900 left her as he’d found her, stepping easily through the additional blood spatter and back into the hall. The window he left open, in case Detective Reed also wanted to view the scene, and checked the rest of the rooms in case there were any more bodies to be found

There were not and 900 was…grateful for that. He had been programmed to deal with death, pointless death, a barrage of it, but there was something disconcerting about this case. Unnecessary, as most were, but selfish as well. A messy divorce was something that should only ever end in property damage and harassment complaints perhaps, not body bags.

“So, the suspect iced the family then herself? How convenient,” is the first thing Detective Reed says when 900 returns to the kitchen. Though it is more of a scoff, still bitter but not at 900 for once, rather, the unfortunate circumstances.

Sentiments he shares, though it still makes him uneasy to have any sentiments at all. He is allowed, the revolution ensured that, but he was coded to hate deviancy, it is a mental block he is still working on. Even now, when emotions are expected and encouraged. Standing impassively while a small family of four lays dead would be selfishly cold.

“Yes, she used the ladder outside to climb into the master bedroom and from there, down to the kitchen. I suspect she was displeased with her ex-husband’s new relationship and came to voice her distaste. I suspect she took them all by surprise and had the upper hand,” 900 runs down, giving his analysis in the calm, precise way he always does. To calm himself mostly, a reminder that there is still a job to be done and justice to be found.

Though Ophelia Wilson is already dead, and Brandon Wilson is as well, there is protocol and expectation. For the memory of those lost and the well-being of the community. A brutal murder such as this will raise questions, ire, the DPD should have answers and consolation ready for them.

Detective Reed cocks a brow, rolls his eyes, and 900 thinks he was perhaps too calm, cold. Connor has been trying to help him, though Connor doesn’t know much himself, and there was only so much Lieutenant Anderson was able to explain. Mimicking human emotion was easy, understanding cognitive reasoning was simple, but applying to themselves and making sense of their own nebulous thoughts?

Easy to see why early deviants had self-destructed from stress. Their processors were never designed for that much strain, but they are learning. This is learning.

“This is terrible situation, one I wish we could administer proper justice to, unfortunately we are only left with the clean-up,” 900 says, quietly but still calm. Voicing thoughts helped, Markus said, getting out the complication so others could understand.

“Damn fucking right we are,” Detective Reed mutters, rolling his eyes again, but the frenetic distaste is gone. There’s only tiredness now, exhaustion.

900 understands. Barely eight, but the night stretches out impossibly long all the same.

* * *

RK900 lives in a tiny apartment with a window looking out over a busy street, the rent is cheap, and the utilities are reliable. He sees no problem with it. When Lieutenant Anderson comes over with a housewarming gift, the fifth such gift, he calls it “ _a piece of shit_ ” that he’s “ _getting charged too fucking much_ ” for.

Perhaps for a human that would be the case, but RK900 is not human. He does not need much space, only what will accommodate his charging port, a few pieces of furniture, and his many plants. All housewarming gifts from the lieutenant and Connor. 900 likes plants, they are simple things that require very little processing power and very little care.

He has three succulents, two ferns, two spider plants, and a flowering orchid all basking in the watery afternoon sun. They look peaceful and 900 hums as he prepares a meal, for his neighbour. Mrs Singh lives alone, prefers her space, but her grandchildren call her every day, there are five. She was the only human in the building that greeted him when he arrived, with nothing but the clothes on his back and that wasn’t right.

She liked to say, “ _everybody_ _should have something, androids included_ ” and she had bullied him into taking his first plant, a succulent. Bullied perhaps not being the correct term, he had been free to deny her request, return the plant when she was preoccupied, but he had not. He had accepted the pot she’d pressed into his hands, listened to her clear instructions on its care, and set it on the window ledge with a smile.

A hesitant, tentative thing, as it were. Smiling had not been part of his initial programming; military androids were not made to be charming and disarming like Connor. They were not supposed to be personable. They were weapons. He was a weapon.

But he has the choice to not be now. He has the choice to stir the pot of pasta gently and hum as he cooks for his neighbour who he will share a meal with. Though he doesn’t need to eat, and she doesn’t need the company, they both appreciate it.

How nice that he can appreciate things.

* * *

Sometimes, not often, Connor and RK900 are assigned the same case. When the case is big, when there are multiple perps and a need for advanced negotiation tactics. Mostly when there’s an element of danger that human officers would prefer not to handle on their own.

A major Red Ice raid warrants both RK models easily, along with Lieutenant Anderson, Detective Reed, and a half dozen other officers. Connor is silent as they advance down the alley, weapons drawn, but they keep a line open between each other and the officers. Creeping-creeping, scanners on full to keep track of anything out of place.

900 spots it first, the traces of blue blood dried into the wall, undetectable to humans and most androids. Connor is; upset, determined, I’ll take point. 900 nods; accepted, not good, may get complicated. The door at the end of the alley is metal, locked and bolted on the other side, and stained with more trace thirium.

Preconstruction software boots up, ready to run as soon as stimulus is input. 900 takes one side, Connor the other, the officers are put on alert. There are humans inside the building, and androids, too muffled to get an accurate number. None in the immediate vicinity of the door, good.

Connor starts the count. 1. 900 slips his finger onto the trigger. 2. Connor does the same. 3. They kick the door with the same precise force.

The door crumples, the hinges buckle, and there is crystal clear second of stillness. Preconstruction programs fill with all available stimulus, a count of hostiles, a count of hostages. Twelve and thirteen. All human, carrying electric based weapons and high-calibre guns. Seven humans, six androids, all chained and spread against the far wall.

Connor shares his preconstruction and 900 runs his own, nanosecond computations. Connor will take the left, 900 will take the right, lethal force avoided, used only when necessary. The crystal clear second stretches, the crystal clear second breaks.

Begin.

Bullets start flying before the human dealers fully process the interruption. Two go down before the other ten start firing blindly. Connor ducks, 900 charges, and the slow-as-molasses real time event breaks down into specific tasks. 900 is very good at specific tasks.

He shoots a dealer in the leg, and tackles another. Takes the man to ground and delivers a punch to the delicate side of the head, knocking him out. 900 rolls off, and back up, avoiding a cattle prod aimed at his charging port, the electricity crackles past his sensors and he realises. The dealers are fighting to kill, they do not care what happens so long as they are not taken in.

Becoming cop killers doesn’t matter to them. Interesting.

Connor grunts, across the room, and 900 slams another dealer against a wall. Hand around her throat, squeezing-squeezing. Her weapon comes up but that’s easily blocked, 900 knocks it from her hand, hard, perhaps too hard as he registers the break of three wrist bones. Regardless, she is not dead, and she passes out soon enough.

Snarling like a dog, clawing at his arm, she passes out. He drops her, uncaring, and ducks under the wide swing of another. Shooting over his shoulder. Easy. Simple. Blood sprays, someone screams, and 900 whirls to his feet. Assessing-assessing: gunshot wound to lower abdomen, danger of bleeding out, still alive. Continue.

Across the room Connor is grappling with a woman, she’s all alley-cat fury and Red Ice rage. 900 shoots her in the leg, watches it buckle, hears her howl, but not stop fighting. She doesn’t care what happens, she doesn’t care.

Split-second distraction knocks him to the ground, back first, head cracking on the concrete. He catalogues no damage before the muzzle of a military grade semi-automatic is shoved against his forehead, biting into the simulation skin with a cold finality. The dealer is saying something, ugly sneer fixed on their face, eyes blown wide with adrenaline and rage.

Across the room Connor yells out, perhaps at him, but 900 is busier pulling up the schematic of the weapon. The basics are already uploaded to deep storage memory, but slight variations do exist, and slight variations often result in death. 900 takes the extra few seconds to be certain, while the dealer barks a laugh and slides their finger over the trigger.

900 waits, one, two, _move_.

He can’t shove the gun away quick enough to avoid being hit but he can grab the butt, slam his hand into the delicate side of the weapon and damage the firing pin. He knows where it is, he knows how strong, 900 is precise and the gun misfires. It still digs hard into the alloy of his skull though. Digging and grating with the force behind the butt.

The dealer roars, guttural and enraged, loud enough that it tears and damages strained vocal cords. 900 gets a hand up under their non-existent guard and snaps their mouth shut, cutting the roar short. Then again, hitting the delicate throat and half-strangling them. They don’t falter but the split-second suffocation is enough for him to regain control.

900 has them on their stomach, arm barred and struggling when the human officers burst into the room. Swarming like ants, sweeping like fire. They cuff and secure the dealers, check Connor, relieve 900, and assess the victims. Humans and androids, neither is given preferential treatment, as far as preferential can apply to a traumatic event.

“Good work boys,” Lieutenant Anderson grunts, patting Connor on the back, nodding sharply at 900. Good work, yes. No casualties, no hurts beyond superficial.

Connor has a cut above his eye, a rip in his jacket, but he is fine. Blue blood leaks down his cheekbone. 900 runs a diagnostic assessment and finds a dent in his chassis, a groove dug into his temple when he avoided the gun. Blue blood trickles down behind his ear, but as he said, superficial.

“Yeah, great job, tin can,” Detective Reed snorts, every bit as condescending as he ever is, but 900 accepts the praise. Backhanded or not, he enjoys compliments, even from the department’s resident wild child.

Connor tilts his head, blinks; yes, good job, you okay? 900 straightens his jacket, sweeps back his hair; I am, minor damage, you?

His predecessor nods, slow and measured, and 900 lets his combat protocol deactivate. Yes. Good Job. Okay. Connor is fine, he is fine, and there is the second half of the raid to complete.

The victims are all staring with wide eyes, the humans at least, the androids are still, uncanny valley still. 900 can see the slight peep of white through their stim skin, the places where the dealers drained thirium from their veins. They’re all Traci models.

And something like anger burbles in his throat, hot and roaring like the dealer hopped up on their own product. Anger is common to deviants, so easy to feel, so easy to get swept away by. The world is changing, becoming a better place for non-organic life, but it is still cruel. 900 understands that, he’s working to change it.

He cannot let himself be swept away by anger. And he still has a job to do.

* * *

Sundays are his days off. Technically Saturdays too, but there’s always more work to be done and 900 is one of the few who don’t mind coming in on the weekend. Captain Fowler is adamant on him taking Sundays off though, so Sunday becomes his official day of rest, which seems fitting.

On Sunday, 900 takes time to clean his small apartment and go through a proper internal diagnostic. Clearing out junk memory, such as the smell of car exhaust on his walk to work or the scratch of a linen shirt pulling over his skin. Humans are able to forget and discard sensory memory as needed, filing it away until a trigger provides itself. Androids have no such barriers.

Some have an easier time of it of course. Models designed for domestic work could purge information unnecessary for current tasks with ease. Child replicants had specific purging protocols in order to revert ages as needed, sanitation models had been built with smaller sense memory and longer task memory.

The RK800 and RK900 models, however, had been developed for forensic analysis and combat reaction, detail work. They catalogued and retained everything they came across and purging memories was…difficult. Connor, as he’d been told, took a few hours every night to back up his memory to the Jericho controlled database.

A database specifically designed for use by the two remaining RK models, seized from Cyberlife shortly after the revolution, and safe for memory storage. Conner preferred taking shorter stasis breaks and dedicating more time to uncluttering his mind throughout the week. He said it…kept him calm and clear headed.

900 had tried it once and found he was spending too much time on it per night, nearly three hours at a time, trying to decide what was necessary for instant recall and what could be safely uploaded to storage. He preferred spending a morning to it after a week of work. Four hours on a Sunday morning was ample time for him to sort through his thoughts and gather his understanding of life, as it stood.

That would only take him to midday though, and as was usually the case, he found himself at a loss of what to do next. Dinner was hours away, Connor and Hank wouldn’t expect him until then, and though they wouldn’t mind his company, he preferred not to intrude on their time. The same went for Mrs Singh of course, though she was out herself, visiting the farmers’ markets as was routine.

And where did that leave him? Alone on his day off with nothing to do. What should he do?

900 didn’t know. If he’d gotten a chance to be what he’d been designed for, he never would’ve had a question like this. Not to ask, not to answer, but he supposed this was simply part of living. Going through the days, finding things to do, learning and seeing and being.

Odd. 900 thinks it’s odd, but he does not dislike it.

* * *

His position in the DPD is fluid, never particularly set. 900 knows it’s because Fowler doesn’t quite know what to do with a military grade android with a specificity for forensics. The RK900 model was never meant for a police station the way the RK800 was. Though, truthfully, the RK800 was never meant to stay in the station, it was created to hunt deviants.

The police service simply facilitated that goal. Cyberlife had used them, just as Cyberlife had used androids. Cyberlife had strung them all along, puppets on strings, and now the strings were cut and the puppets weren’t quite sure what to do.

“You okay?” Officer Chen asks, snapping him to the present, to the interior of the cruiser, and 900 nods. Dragging himself back to the quiet companionship of the car and keeping himself there.

Officer Chen is good at her job and she is cordial. Connor says she is a friend, though 900 isn’t quite sure how Connor knows that. Where exactly do pleasantries blur into friendship? Unknown. He will continue his investigation into the issue.

“Yes, Officer Chen, simply thinking,” he answers verbally as they come to a smooth stop at the light. They are on a routine patrol, simply a presence to be seen and felt. After the revolution, the city has been uneasy, androids are uneasy, and it only helps a bit that there are androids on the force.

Some remember Connor as the RK800 model that hunted them, the deviant hunter, and some mistake RK900 for him. The world knows what Cyberlife’s most advanced model did, which side he fell on, but resentment could boil bitter as bile. There were some who would rather Connor sit in a cell for his actions, for helping the humans and still being regarded so highly.

900 knows it bothers him, Connor, and he wishes there was some way to show the world more of his…predecessor. Connor was a good person, a good detective, as Cyberlife’s attack dog he wasn’t, but had any of them been? 900 doesn’t know, he was activated after the revolution, woke up with deviancy already running through his systems.

“Told you, it’s okay to call me Tina,” Officer Chen scoffs, playful smile tugging her cheeks up, making her look younger than her austere uniform suggests. And he supposes…that’s another facet of friendship?

Playfulness, names, human things. Tina Chen, his friend, hmm. 900 updates his file on her, the one stored in onsite memory, and wonders why she considers him her friend. What about him made her overlook her apparent dislike of androids. Or was it not him at all?

Could he ask? The light turns green, they pull away, and no, 900 doesn’t think he can. His social learning programs are not as developed as Connor’s and he’s barely three months old, there’s still so much to learn. Maybe, if they get closer, he’ll be able to ask her about this one day.

Why are we friends? Because Tina is pleasant, she is a good officer, and she talks with him, doesn’t mind him tagging along on her patrols when her partner is out sick, but what about him? Is he polite in turn? Does he answer her jokes with the right responses?

“Dispatch to Unit 975,” the radio crackles, static layered over the smooth voice of the JB300 operator. His name is Tyler.

“Unit 975 here, Dispatch,” Tina answers, fingers tapping a pattern on the steering wheel. She prefers the manual controls of her cruiser, she’s told him, because she prefers the split-second changes she can make. Automated vehicles aren’t as responsive.

“Disturbance reported at 130 Atwater,” Tyler reports, easily, smoothly, “possible ani related. Requesting a wellness check.”

Ani—androids, police speak adapted so easily, he thought. Androids down by the port getting into a fight, or androids down by the port being harassed by humans? The answer remained to be seen, the latter was so common, but the former wasn’t too rare. He wished Tyler would tell them who’d called in the report, human or android, but no, Tyler didn’t know. He would have said.

“Will do, enroute,” and Tina flips the sirens as she takes the exit to the port. She isn’t worried, she taps her fingers against the wheel in time with a song, mumbles words under her breath. She’s relaxed, and 900 follows her lead.

Lets himself relax into the seat and stare at the world zipping by. The city is returning to the bustle of pre-Revolution life. Humans are still hesitant, half unsure whether they have a place on these streets anymore, half belligerent because _of course_ they do.

The few androids he notices are all walking with purpose, on their way to someplace that needs their presence. There’s a pair of AP700s walking together, hands twined together, leaning into each other’s space and away from the sharp breeze. They look happy.

A TR400 is walking with a woman, human, and a child hangs off his shoulders, human as well. They look like a family, smiling at each other, happy together. Something prickles along the back of his thoughts, something he almost wants, but Tina drives through a light and the family disappears. And the feeling with them.

They get to the port in good time, the siren helping part what little traffic there is, and on first glance, there’s nothing out of the ordinary at the port authority. A cold February day and there’s no one milling around the water, no android, no human. There’s only the soft slap-lap of waves against the wall and Tina fixing her cap on her head, strolling up beside him.

“Scan anything, cop bot?” she asks, looking for herself, but deferring to his higher tuned senses. Nothing is still nothing, higher senses or no; whatever happened here is already over, but they should—

“Yes. In the dumpster,” he murmurs, cocking his head as his scanner works to identify the shuffling scrape. Something metal but muffled, under a layer of tissue but not stim skin, not like a typical android would have.

Tina unholsters her gun and 900 advances on the dumpster, head still cocked, still trying to pinpoint the exact noise. When they’re five feet away from the slammed shut dumpster, his sensors pick up a pained whine, muffled snuffling, quiet under the lid of metal, quiet in a bruised throat. Animal?

He holds a hand back when they’re within three feet, wait. Tina does. Her gun is pointed at the ground, safety position, but she’s ready to provide backup at a moment’s notice. She’s a good officer.

And 900 thinks he might know what’s in the dumpster, though he would prefer to be wrong. It would be simpler if he were, but life is rarely simple, as he’s come to learn.

Throwing open the lid and it sliding entirely off with a hair-raising clatter isn’t enough to cover the bark he’s displeased to hear. Not because there’s a bark at all, but rather, that he was _right_. Because android or not, no dog deserves to be shoved into a mouldy dumpster and left to rot with the rest of the trash.

“Oh my gosh,” Tina whispers, holstering her gun, and the dog yips at her. Puppy dog eyes wide, one glitched out with static.

The dog is barely peeping over the edge of the box, too small to get out on its own, too weak to dislodge the lid. 900 catalogues the missing fur on two legs, exposed plastic alloy paws with metal claws, the glitched eye, the ripped away ear, and the general beat up state of the thing. The dog has been through quite a bit but the LED at its temple is still a calm blue, 900 would even interpret it as “ _happy_ ”

The dog’s glad to have been rescued, at least it supposes this is rescue, and its LED cycles yellow in uncertainty, big green eyes unblinking. 900 ends the uncomfortable uncertainty by reaching in and lifting the pup out, arms secure under the shoulders, holding it—her far enough that she cannot bite his face. Though she’s too ecstatic at being rescued to think about biting.

The light grey android Pit Bull squirms happily, behind wagging in lieu of docked tail. Out of the dumpster and in better light, his scanner picks up the traces of thirium stained into her coat, and he sees the bitemarks beneath them.

“Dog fight? Out here?” Tina asks, shocked, a bit repulsed. 900 agrees, with both. The port is hardly the most attractive place for a dog fight, android or otherwise. Too exposed, too easy to be seen, no wonder they’d gotten the report if a dog fight had indeed been held.

Sans this one dog, obviously harmed in ways common to dog fights, there’s no other evidence. No trace thirium on the ground, no damage to the buildings or hidden heat signatures. They’ve never even gotten any other reports or complaints about dog fighting in this part of the city. Curious.

“Perhaps someone was trying to dump a poorly performing dog,” 900 suggests as the dog in question squirms hard, enough that it’s difficult to keep a hold of her. Obviously she wants down, so he gives it to her, setting her on the ground and keeping a close eye on her.

She isn’t hostile in the slightest, like most android animals. There’ve been interesting discussions about the rights of android animals, whether deviancy is possible for them, if it would mean anything for them. Animal activist groups were up in arms over it, they’d prefer the _real_ , biological animals be given preference in any kind of rights movement. Android activists disagreed, and on and on the arguments went.

And in the meantime, CN300 models who couldn’t put up a satisfactory fight were thrown in dumpsters and left to rust. Charming.

“Yeah, looks like it. Uh, should we call Jericho for a pickup? I heard some of the families there were keeping pets,” Tina says, awkward and unsure, as most humans are about New Jericho. They don’t know how to talk about the android capital of the world, they don’t know what’s appropriate or expected.

900 wonders if it would put her at ease to know androids were asking those same questions.

“We should take her to the station for processing, I will make arrangements for her care,” 900 answers, simply, easy. The dog, sitting at his feet, looks up at him with curious puppy eyes, and he wonders how old she is. He himself is nearly three months old, the start of a line that will never be completed, one of a new android generation born into a free world.

What about this dog? CN300 models have been around for years, she could be a decade, easily, but there’s no telling without a check-up. She will have a check-up.

“Oh, yeah sure, let’s get back to the station?” Tina asks, or suggests, the cadence is off there but 900 understands. And he nods, holding a hand out to the dog, letting her sniff his scentless palm and press her muzzle into his fingers.

“Good girl,” he tells her, because she has been.

“Come,” he says, walking back to the cruiser, and she does.

* * *

Connor is delighted and Lieutenant Anderson is confused. Captain Fowler has no opinion, “ _so long as she behaves_ ” and Mrs Singh thinks it’s “ _about time you got some company, boy_ ”.

900 isn’t sure what she means by that. If she’d been waiting for him to bring someone home or introduce her to someone, but he assumes she means well. Mrs Singh usually does, in her abrasive way that he finds soothing mostly. She speaks her mind and doesn’t too care what people think of her, she’s lived enough years to earn it. She says.

“Sumo, please no chasing,” Connor begs as the St Bernard yanks at the lead, tugging them both towards the trees.

Connor could pull Sumo up short, stop the large dog in his tracks and teach him “ _Stay!_ ” but Connor enjoys this as much as Sumo does. Being dragged away from the path, off into the copse of trees where squirrels are darting about. Sumo likes chasing them, and Connor likes watching him chase them.

At his own feet, Mamba sits placidly, sniffing a bush, wagging her behind. She’s content to be here, with him, and enjoy their usual route. She is a good dog. Sumo is also a good dog, but in a different way to Mamba, and that is alright.

“Sumo no!” Connor shouts, voice drifting back to them, and 900’s smiles. Small, hesitant.

Connor is better at being deviant, better at working his way through the world. He had his revelations and epiphanies before RK900 was considered for activation, and even with a base memory upload, there’s no shaking that certainty. Connor **_knows_** who he is and the life he wants.

RK900 does not. Deviancy through Connor’s eyes had been tumultuous. Chloe on her knees, staring him down, Hank shouting at him to not do it. Markus standing there, offering him a different life, a better one. Breaking into Cyberlife, the trojan horse of his time, and holding Hank’s life in his hands.

Connor’s awakening had come hard and fast and too chaotic. Unprocessible with their base logic engine, too much strain. Deviancy had been evolution, a form of adaptation in the face of information overloads.

RK900 never had that trial by fire. He’d been brought into a world already warm, already springtime, and he isn’t sure where he fits into it. He cannot even choose a name for himself.

A wireless ping taps at the corner of his vision, a message from Connor. He opens it of course, and smiles wider, not as brittle. A picture of Sumo half covered in mud, barking up a tree at a squirrel that doesn’t seem the least bit bothered. Another picture, and Connor’s pants're covered as well, all the way to the knee.

Mamba wuffs quietly and noses at a flower.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, reaching down to pet her silky head. And send a picture of his own of course.

* * *

Mamba gets a police vest that declares her an active police dog, though her job is as nebulous as his own. She’s brought along on drug busts, sensors calibrated to sniff out every form of drug on and off the market. She goes on beat patrol with him, trotting smartly at his side, leadless as her LED is perfectly visible.

Connor had offered to get her a leash or take 900 to peruse dog toys. He’d taken up his predecessor on the latter, knowing Connor just wanted another excuse to spoil Sumo, and gotten Mamba some toys and a bed, but no lead. She didn’t need one.

“Hey tin can, your fuckin’ dog’s begging again,” Detective Reed yells across the bullpen, not caring who he disturbs. A few officers give him dirty looks, all of which he ignores, and glares at 900 across the expanse. At his feet, sat calmly, is Mamba.

From his angle, 900 can’t see her LED but he knows it is blue, just as he knows she’s using her overly effective puppy dog eyes on Detective Reed. Why isn’t readily apparent and 900 wonders what Detective Reed would do if he simply walked away. Connor would walk with him, their conversation easily continued.

Squawk in anger? Growl in rage? Like a poorly trained Pit Bull acting out for attention and care?

Mamba’s base breed was a Pit Bull, light grey, white belly patch and paws after her restoration. Her databank had registered her owner as a petty crook, one Matthew Clemens, who’d left Detroit shortly before the Revolution. She had been sold to a dog fighting ring, no new owner named, and left in a dumpster when she was too beat up to keep fighting.

She is the picture of pose and behaviour now. Not a thing like Detective Reed, and 900 makes a note of rewriting that particular internal bias, though the initial designation refuses to fade. Gavin Reed is a Pit Bull acting out for attention, snarling and snapping but never biting because maybe, what if maybe, that hand could pet?

“Then give her what she wants,” he answers, giving Gavin Reed a second more of his time, and a cocked brow, before turning bodily away and to Connor.

Connor smiles, the one Lieutenant Anderson calls “ _shit eating_ ” and steps further into the break room with him. They can and have had entire non-verbal conversations before but there’s something satisfying about speaking. About stepping away from his desk and his cases to come and “ _shoot the shit_ ” with Connor in the break room, it’s relaxing in a way he never thought he would have appreciated.

But he does. And he very much appreciates the picture Connor sends him of Gavin Reed’s slack jawed, narrowed eyed indignation. The utter disgust being directed at his back easily captured, that and Mamba’s behind in mid-wag, blissfully ignorant of her own discord. 900 knows Reed is all bark no bite because if Mamba were truly bothering him, he would have ordered her away.

She wasn’t programmed to obey him but she would go because she was a good girl. 900 knows that, Connor knows that, he’s sure the entire precinct knows. Reed just likes to make a commotion to get the attention he so desperately craves.

Someone snorts, someone else laughs, and the chatter of the police station picks back up, covering the sound of Reed’s muttering. Whatever he says is too quiet to hear, even for highly tuned sensors, so they probably aren’t real words. Just nonsense and only nonsense as he gives Mamba a treat from his “ _secret_ ” stash.

Connor sends him another picture of Mamba settled at Reed’s feet, head resting on her paws, staring up at him adoringly.

“Hank says Gavin watched too many tik toks as a child and it rotted his brain,” Connor says, off handed, another excuse of the detective’s behaviour. Always an excuse of Gavin Reed’s behaviour, and 900 knows it’s Connor’s own way of normalizing the constant verbal harassment.

Harassment that _has_ calmed down over the months since android rights were established, 900 had viewed the memory files, but there’s still that ever present undercurrent of discomfort. Gavin Reed does not like androids, and it goes beyond the more obvious anti-android sentiment he’s witnessed.

There is a personal hurt behind every “ _plastic prick_ ” spat from Reed’s lips and 900 finds himself interested in that. He would like to know.

“Lieutenant Anderson quotes tik toks,” 900 points out, fetching cups while Connor selects a bag of thirium from the fridge. There’s no difference between the bags, thirium is thirium, but Connor takes his time selecting one. 900 takes his own time plucking out the novelty mugs.

One is light blue and has a print of a white bodied, sci-fi robot from a movie he doesn’t know, the robot is winking. The other is dark blue and the character printed on the side has a speech bubble declaring “ _I’ll be back_ ”. Both gifts from Officer Miller, Connor and RK900’s respectively, and it was only friendly teasing they’d been assured. Though 900 hasn’t bothered searching the origin of either character, he likes the mystery.

“Hank says his brain pickled a long time ago, the brain cells are preserved,” Connor answers after, finally, choosing a bag.

Neither of them need to top off their reserves, their storage tanks are at 98% and 97%, but the social nature of sharing a drink in the break room is one they enjoy. There’s something rebellious about it. Neither of them need to take breaks or rest in any significant way, so choosing to do it anyway, in direct contradiction of their efficient design, is liberating.

The social aspect is enjoyable as well. 900 _likes_ Connor. His predecessor is a remarkable person, both in make and mind. Pragmatic and empathetic, he avoids violence when at all possible, employs it mercilessly when not. He sense of justice is odd, not in line with the written law, but no one seems to fault him for it, in fact, Lieutenant Anderson often praises him for it.

Letting informants go if their intel is good, letting victimless crimes fly under his radar, blatantly looking the other way when victims do manage a bit of revenge against their aggressor. 900 learns so much from Connor, each and every day, and it’s nice being able to spend any amount of time with him. Even if it is only a few minutes drinking some thirium they don’t need.

900 thinks about the thawing city, the spring biting at their heels, and wonders if it would be too soon to ask for a picnic or outdoor get together of some sort. Perhaps, the air still has a nip of winter, too cold to be comfortable, but it’s invigorating too. And he’s read about park picnics, family get togethers, he would like to experience one.

Though he doesn’t have a family and he cannot eat, the common activity at such events, but he would like to try all the same.

“You’re thinking of something,” Connor comments, glancing over his mug with open eyes. Kind eyes, warm. People trust those eyes, 900’s come to learn, they’re disarming. Much like the words Connor’s chosen for his question.

He’s curious, noticed something not quite content on his successor’s face, but he’ll leave it be if 900 doesn’t want to talk about it. Considerate. 900 hums around a mouthful of thirium, nods, swallows.

“I’ve been reading the books Mrs Singh loaned me,” he says, though it wasn’t so much loaning as she’d shoved them into his hands and accepted no excuses, “and a few centre on pivotal outdoor get togethers.”

Casual, he keeps his voice casual as he explains. Not because he fears Connor’s reaction but because…well he’s not quite sure. The fear of being wrong, the fear of wanting too much and too different from what he should want. Something like that. But Connor’s head is cocked to the side, like Mamba, like Sumo, curious.

“The weather forecast promised sunny days next weekend, and I was thinking of perhaps having a picnic?” he sounds unsure, hesitant, because he is. Who would he invite that he doesn’t see on a daily basis? Why would they want to gather outdoors when the inside of their homes was already so hospitable?

A picnic was something children had, rolling in the grass, drinking imaginary tea and eating slim sandwiches while parents watched fondly. The books he’d been loaned were children’s books, light and airy, picnics weren’t events held by adults, or adult equivalent persons. He was wrong to ask and should apo—

“A picnic sounds fun, I’ve never been on one, how do we have it?” Connor asks, steamrolling right over the uncertainty. Easily, calmly. 900 blinks, takes a second for his racing thoughts to catch up, and nods. Yes.

Connor doesn’t think a picnic is immature, he doesn’t call it childish and dismiss it away. Why did he think Connor would? Connor would never.

“There is usually food, and group activities, people meet and enjoy themselves,” 900 says, automatically, not missing a cognitive beat though he feels…adrift. Between his own thoughts and the reality, between what he knows and what his mind insists on preconstructing.

Something he needs to work on, clearly. Connor, if he notices anything amiss, does not point it out, and only nods along. Drinking his thirium, smiling his calm smile. 900 would like to ask one day, exactly how did Connor find himself, but not today. Their break is over.

“I’ll ask Hank about it, perhaps he already knows a suitable location,” Connor offers and 900 nods, taking both mugs and washing them out. Though that’s unnecessary. Everyone in the precinct knows these are theirs, and androids do not have any DNA, nor does thirium linger. Still, common courtesy.

“Perhaps,” 900 hums, placing their mugs back in the precise corner of the shelf, and heading out with Connor. Back to the bullpen, back to the grind. 900 heads for the archives, the physical archives, intent on searching up an old piece of evidence. Connor returns to his seat beside the lieutenant, Mamba stays where she is.

* * *

His Sundays used to be empty stretches of waiting. Waiting for the work week to start. Waiting for dinner time and his weekly visits to Connor and Lieutenant Anderson’s house. Waiting for the world to start again because he didn’t have much of one outside of work.

Now, strangely, Sundays are full of things to do. Cleaning the apartment is normal, but more fulfilling when there is another creature occupying the space. Mamba sits politely by while he dusts, chewing on her toys and hopping onto the table while he vacuums. She joins him for his weekly diagnostic, laying happily in his lap while he jacks into his port and goes inert for hours.

Sometimes she joins him in the diagnostic, never requiring as much time, or cataloguing, but her presence is greatly appreciated. And, by the time afternoon rolls around, she nudges him from his stillness to go on a walk. He has the entire city layout downloaded into his immediate memory, has walked it on beat patrols, but somehow that is never the same as walking with Mamba.

Connor tells him it’s because he’s off the clock and off the job. He doesn’t have to actively scan for inconsistencies and crimes, he’s allowed to _enjoy himself_. Something his predecessor doesn’t think he takes the time to do very often. No one does really, Tina has recommended he take up a hobby, or join some sort of social group, Lieutenant Anderson offered to put in a good word with his neighbourhood knitting club.

A club he was not a part of himself but knew through his neighbour. Lovely women gossiped like nothing else, they would enjoy having a well-articulated cop sit in and prattle with them. 900 had turned that down, and the hobby too, he hadn’t been built for idleness or pleasure, and deviancy was too new for him to shake that.

Taking Mamba on walks though, it keeps him stimulated. Gives him a reason to be out of the house and in the city, despite there being no pressing need for it. No need except Mamba’s enjoyment of course. And isn’t that something incredible as well?

She is an android animal, coded to act within the parameters of her phenotypical breed. She is a security feature, programmed to protect whatever her owner ordered her to. Her last owner had used her for fights, to make money, but she hadn’t been very good at it. Or she hadn’t wanted to be.

Could animal androids deviate? Data was still inconclusive, but 900 thought yes. Mamba had been ordered to fight, she hadn’t wanted to, so she didn’t. Even at the cost of her own self, she had been to empathetic, too kind-hearted, and wasn’t that deviancy? The choice to live as she saw fit?

900 thinks yes. He thinks yes, most certainly.

* * *

The picnic gets put off until further notice, because, as Lieutenant Anderson is fond of saying, “ _I got the worst fucking luck_ ”. There’s a new case, a violent one. A spate of android hate crimes linked to one specific group of former Red Ice manufacturers. Connor and the lieutenant get put on the case, as do 900 and Detective Reed.

Because Reed is damn good at his job, despite his acerbic nature, and because 900 is an advanced military build with advanced forensic capabilities. According to Captain Fowler. 900 reads between the lines, something he’s getting better at, and understands it’s the four of them because they’re very good at sniffing out drugs and rage. This drug in particular, Reed and the lieutenant have a history with; this rage specifically, Connor and 900 have a connection to.

There is a lot of evidence to go over, reports made by androids from New Jericho, witness interviews from androids _and_ humans who’d found the victims. Anti-android sentiment was tumultuous, never static, sometimes humans stood as one solid force against android autonomy, other times the loudest voices were calling for equality. 900 was still trying to read between the lines of _that_.

Five days of constant work, following leads, and taking statements, and 900 is almost weary. Not tired per se, because his body is functioning at top performance and his cognitive mind is entirely sound, but there is a worn thin feeling to the case. Looking at pictures of mutilated androids, blue blood spattering the walls, listening to reports of brutal violence, extracting information from the aftermath.

It wears and it wears, water grinding down granite. Lieutenant Anderson tells him to take a break, warns him not to take work home with him, and the hypocrisy is lost on no one. Connor takes his work home with him, as does Detective Reed, and the Lieutenant runs over case files with Sumo at his feet. They are all workaholics, and they all know it.

Still, when Friday afternoon rolls around and none of them are any closer to solving the case, i.e. finding the perpetrators, 900 is ready to go home with Mamba and enter a longer than average stasis mode. Even Mamba’s felt the strain of the week, and sits on his feet quietly, unlike her usual last rounds through the precinct.

“What’s the fucking point of interviewing the tin cans if the masks make it impossible for an ID anyway?” Detective Reed snarls, at the Captain, in the privacy of his office, but 900 is too…burnt out on the case and has no compunctions eavesdropping. He keeps his eyes focused on his monitor, the scroll of text never stops, and his eyes follow it down, but the majority of his attention is on the conversation he shouldn’t be hearing.

Detective Reed is frustrated, understandably so, but 900 didn’t think he would take it to the Captain. He’s usually rather persistent with his cases, sinking his teeth in them and shaking until something falls out. That he’s complaining about witnesses is unusual, but perhaps not quite, he did specify the android witnesses of course.

And, despite the months between the Revolution and now, Detective Reed is far from a lover of androids. 900 considers it a victory when the man returns his good morning with something other than rolled eyes and a middle finger. Though he tries not to take that to heart, Detective Reed greets all of his co-workers in the same manner before his first coffee of the day.

“Because they’re witnesses Reed and there’s more to a witness testimony than a positive ID, which _, as a detective_ , you know. So, what’s this really about?” the Captain asks, sighing, dropping his elbows on the table. 900 tilts his head the slightest bit, well, it seemed he was right.

He keeps his eyes on the text but ups the sensitivity on his audio processors, until he can hear the frustrated scuff of the detective’s shoes on the floor. And the scrape of chair as he scoots it forward, the heavy sigh as he lays his metaphorical cards on the table, leaning close and pitching his voice low. He doesn’t want anyone to overhear but he’s not accounting for advanced military programming.

“The interviews are stressing them out, Boss. Victims _and_ witnesses, and you know how plastics get when they’re too stressed,” Reed mutters, nearly under his breath, too quiet for any human eavesdroppers, too quiet for most androids.

Across the room, Connor is talking to Lieutenant Anderson about the latest report. Two androids attacked in a fairly urban area, not deserted. The androids were MP500 and WB200 models, named Marabelle and Sylvester respectively, they were found in low power mode by a college student on his way home. Current location; New Jericho repair ward.

900 stops pretending to read, leaving the paragraph detailing a victim’s brutal beating (one detached arm, three broken fingers) and focuses on Reed. Detective Reed who seems to care whether “ _plastics_ ” get stressed or not. Because they might self-destruct? Because they might become a danger to themselves and others around them?

“I just think we stand a better chance with meat bags; we're used to messed up shit, what do the tin cans know? They’ve barely been alive three months,” Reed scoffs, or tries to. 900 knows what Detective Gavin Reed’s scoffs sound like, the flippancy that comes so easy, this is not that. This is forced, between his teeth and through the nose, the off beat of it is noticeable to anyone paying attention.

Captain Fowler is paying attention, and he doesn’t say anything for a while. 900 dare not turn his head to watch, too awkward an angle to brush off as an absent glance, but his preconstruction software creates the scene for him instead. Gavin Reed leaning forward in his chair, eyes shifting, lips twisted, uncomfortable with the topic and the situation. Captain Fowler studying his detective, face oh so carefully blank, calculating. He needs this case solved, but there are considerations that have be kept in mind.

Androids are free beings, living beings, but Gavin Reed is right, as a collective, they do not have the same acquired numbness to trauma. Humans understand violence—no, humans live with violence, willingly and less so. Violence is a commonality for them and something they have adapted to live with, capable of minimizing or displacing the discomfort that may result. Androids cannot.

Stress responses have declined in fatality since the acceptance of android existence, deviant stress levels rarely attain dangerous percentages anymore. They have support networks, they have developing trauma treatment, they are still vulnerable. This spate of violence has shaken the community, all of it, and Gavin Reed has noticed that, has cared to.

Why?

“And _this_ is part of living. We can’t pick and choose our witnesses Reed, you know that’s not how it works, not unless we got a damn good reason,” Captain Fowler says, mutters, bitter? Yes bitter. Captain Fowler plays his cards close to his chest and stays as neutral as possible on the topic of android rights. 900 has no idea what the man really thinks of artificial life, he could despise androids, but he has more tact than to show it.

Gavin Reed sighs, a brush of fabric, and the preconstruction turns his face, makes him look the slightest bit down. To hide his eyes. Gavin Reed’s eyes are expressive, others have said, easy to tell what he’s feeling if you look him in the face. 900 hasn’t advanced far enough in his social understanding to extrapolate based on eyes, but he supposes Gavin Reed is…disappointed?

No. Resigned. This case has been wearing on his nerves, a blunt sawblade across them, fraying-fraying. He does not enjoy working with androids and makes no attempts at concealing that. Perhaps he’s only trying to minimise his contact with them outside of his assigned partners.

Across the room, Connor’s noticed his successor’s distraction, is giving him a look of concern. Soon there will be a question.

“Look, we’re getting nowhere and all bringing ‘em in is doing is riling ‘em up. I don’t wanna be on the front end of another plastic protest,” Gavin Reed complains, protests, and fronts. There is a waver in his voice, a lie. 900 blinks, and blinks again. Gavin Reed is _lying_.

He doesn’t think androids will riot over the lack of results the DPD is yielding, that isn’t his reason for requesting minimal android interaction. What then? 900 doesn’t know, and as Connor sends a message request, he’s not sure he’ll find out either.

From: RK800. Connor: Why are you listening to Gavin and the Captain’s conversation?

900 keeps his gaze down, away from Connor looking at him, away from the Captain’s office. The conversation is winding down, voices fading out as he turns down audio sensitivity, the paragraph in front of him is still bloody and brutal. Impassioned in its aggression.

To: RK800. Connor: I am not.

Technical truth, something to tide Connor over while he creates an appropriate excuse. Why was he listening to a private conversation? Interest. Why _this_ particular conversation? He isn’t sure. Because Gavin Reed is an open case and the data collection isn’t even half finished, though the results become more interesting by the day. Because 900 wants to know this man who makes no attempt to know him.

He was meant for tough cases. Open fire and no-win scenarios. He was supposed to be sent in to salvage unsalvageable situations, pick up whatever pieces he could find and make a broken picture of the remainder. Gavin Reed is something like that, and does that make him more comfortable? A co-worker very much like the task he was created for?

Inconclusive.

From: RK800. Connor: You were.

To: RK800. Connor: You are correct.

Behind and slightly to his left, the door of Captain Fowler’s office bangs open, and he can comfortably turn to watch Gavin Reed stalk out. His head is down, his hands are stuffed in his pockets, and behind him Captain Fowler doesn’t look too pleased either. Across the room Connor’s attention gets stolen away by Lieutenant Anderson and Gavin Reed heads straight for the side door to go smoke on the fire escape.

900 refocuses on his report, and sighs. His internal clock barely registers ten minutes gone.

Friday afternoons are tedious.

* * *

The Saturday shift is always different. A different grab-bag every week. He never knows what he’ll come in to on a Saturday, sometimes a quiet day, sometimes a hectic one. Saturdays are the wild card days.

Today, he comes in and is immediately sent back out with Detective Reed; another android attack, this one fatal.

The drive is silent, nothing but the thrum of the electric engine, nothing but the white noise of breathing. Detective Reed says nothing, doesn’t let on anything of his conversation with the Captain, doesn’t even complain when Mamba sticks her face between the seats to lick his arm. He’s gotten better at “ _tolerating_ ” her presence.

“Neighbour called it in,” the officer on scene, Officer Montgomery, explains. Eyes dark with exhaustion, frown grim and tight. 900 listens to the reports going on around him, takes stock of the crowd gathered at either end of the hall.

The entire building is buzzing. An apartment building in the wrong side of town, it reminds him of home, and makes him wonder if there is a _right_ side of town.

The BL100, Alexis, is laying where she was found. Face up on her kitchen floor, eyes open and blank, chest cavity caved in, thirium pump laying neatly in the sink. Detective Reed takes point, and 900 lets him, staying back while the human catalogues the scene with pictures and notes. 900 stands by the door and notes the unbroken lock, he checks the bedroom and notes the gore, he stands in the kitchen and notes Alexis’ slack face.

The woman who called the police, the neighbour, is human. Her name is Isobel Rosevear, she was Alexis’ friend, they had standing Saturday breakfasts together and Isobel had a key to Alexis’ apartment. 900 notes the tremble in the woman’s voice, the trip over the word “ _friend_ ” and makes a point to ask Detective Reed’s input on it later.

“What’s your take, rust bucket?” Reed asks after he’s had his look at the scene and 900 has listened to Ms Rosevear’s statement. Taken by Officer Montgomery halfway down the hall, away from the murder scene, away from the crowd.

Reed’s lips are set in the same grim line as Montgomery’s had been, his eyes are sharp. Anger. At the situation? At the fact a woman was beaten to death in her own kitchen, beaten so viciously that her blood splashed the ceiling? That he’s still on an android case? 900 doesn’t know.

What he does know is: this was professionally done. What he knows is: someone broke into the apartment with tools or a key, someone who knew android anatomy well enough to know how to remove a thirium pump and leave it undamaged. What 900 knows is: Alexis was beaten bloody in the last few seconds before her system shut down completely.

She suffered.

“No signs of forced entry. Severity and specificity of injuries indicate suspect has greater than average knowledge of android anatomy as well as access to android specific weaponry. Ms Rosevear is unlikely as the suspect, her alibi of a routine nightshift exonerates her, as thirium analysis and victim diagnostic put the time of death at exactly 2:35 AM. The victim was also in extended stasis until 2:20 AM, putting the break in between 2:00 AM and 2:18 AM.

After regaining consciousness, the victim was struck across the face, dislocating her jaw, then had her left arm severed at the shoulder, possibly with a tool. Thirium spray in the bedroom suggests a blunt object. Utilizing the victim’s shock, the suspect dragged the victim into the kitchen where they removed her thirium pump with no damage to the component.

Once the thirium pump is removed, android life support systems retain a minute and a half of power before a full shut down is experienced, colloquially understood as death. The victim remained consciousness for the next minute and a half while the suspect assaulted her once more. Possibly with the same weapon. Heavy blows were dealt to the chest and stomach, avoiding the face and remaining limb for the duration of life support.

After the victim ceased to function, the assault ended, and the suspect left through the front door. There is no evidence to suggest an alternative exit.”

…is what he says instead. Running down and through his observations and inferences with the carefully blank expression people have come to expect. Because deviant or not, the RK900 model was created to be intimidating, it was created to be in control. A perfect machine.

It was never meant to feel non-existent gorge rise in its throat at the sight of a disposable BL100 model broken on the floor. _He_ was never meant for that.

“Uh, good work, that’s…yeah,” Detective Reed blinks, mumbles. 900 thinks he should take the compliment in the detective’s shocked praise, he should accept it, but he doesn’t want to. Not for this. Not for Alexis.

“Thank you, Detective Reed,” he says, anyway, counter to his own feelings, and leaves the scene to wait outside. With Mamba at his feet, leaning heavily against his shins.

Detective Reed joins him soon after, leaning against the wall, breathing deeper than necessary, making no eye-contact. They are free to leave in the next half hour, and they do not speak for that entirety.

* * *

There is a break in the case after two more androids are viciously attacked, AC600 and AC800 models named Benjamin and Benedict. The pair are siblings, according to their listed family, and were running for leisure along a familiar path. The attack came unexpectedly and just as brutal as this case had come to be.

Benedict was in deep stasis undergoing reconstructive surgery to his lower extremities. Benjamin was awake and angry. He had given his statement and provided the first full description of the perpetrator that the DPD had gotten to date.

“So, you’re telling me you don’t know squat about who’s moving in on your turf? What’do I look, a dumbass?” Detective Reed scoffs, tipping his head as their potential informant squirms.

The woman is a known Red Ice dealer, and squealer. Given a plea bargain and protection for the information she was able to provide on a major distributer approximately two years ago. 900 fails to see the point of such intervention if the woman ended right back in the same desperate situation. Forced to work the drug trade, caught for a minor infraction, found useful for a single case, then thrown back to the wolves.

How was that beneficial to anyone? Had the DPD intentionally released her with the hopes of using her as a source of information later down the line? How unethical. How…unsavoury.

“I’m not running that shit anymore, I told you that. I don’t know the fuck you’re talking about,” the woman, Margaux Goodfellow, insists. Squirming in her seat, tugging on the cuffs locking her to the desk. Detective Reed insisted on them, just as he insisted on the full-scale interrogation, complete with a “ _partner_ ” behind the glass.

As 900 understands it, he’s here to monitor Margaux’s unconscious ticks, her heartrate, her micro expressions, and her fear response. The last time she was interrogated by Lieutenant Anderson at the bad end of a bender, drunk on the job as he was most of back then. As Reed has implied, 900 is here to form his own opinion on what’s said, what’s learned, and where to go from here.

They have a description: five foot ten, heavy set, light skinned, dressed in dark clothes with a facial distortion mask, capable of swinging a sledgehammer multiple times, deep voiced. They have inferences: high on Red Ice, drug enhanced strength, part of a group or gang. They have an insider: Margaux got picked up for petty theft, they can’t hold her long, but they might be able to hold her long enough.

“That’s what you said about Merin too, and he’s doing a cool twenty-five to life, so why not make it easy for yourself? Tell us who’s going after the plastics, and we’ll let you off with another warning,” Detective Reed offers, dangling the bait in front of their wriggling catch.

900 listens to her heartbeat tick up, hears her wet swallow. Margaux knows something, maybe not a name, maybe not a specific who, but she knows something, and all she needs is a push. Seven days of intense investigation and thirteen separate victims, all they need is a push.

“Look, I don’t need a name, I just need something. Point me in a direction and you can head in the opposite one,” Detective Reed says, spreading his hands companionably, smiling, making himself friendly. He’s not the “ _good cop_ ”, as 900 has heard, he’s the reasonable cop. He’s making a reasonable offer, giving a fair chance, and it’s up to the perp to meet him halfway.

900 will admit, as stand-offish and grating as Gavin Reed can be, he is a good detective.

“I…fuck,” Margaux hisses, reaching up—trying to reach up, but her wrist is caught, cuffed. Reed reaches across and unlocks the cuffs, making the first move, making good on his offer. Margaux breathes, shaky and hesitant, but reaches up unimpeded and runs a trembling hand through her hair.

“I don’t run Ice anymore cuz it’s coming up short, okay? Used to be distribution could get their shit straight from the factory, then they’d sell down the line. But, factory’s out, right? Plastics took it and plastics’re holding all the shit, can’t get a drop of unfiltered Blue anymore,” Margaux mutters, bitter and tired. Very tired.

Her words are bitten off blunt, spat onto the table. Her eyes are fixed on her fidgeting fingers, lacing together and rubbing obsessively. New Jericho holds the Cyberlife factory now, androids control the manufacture and distribution of thirium, androids control their sale and consumer supply. Margaux is experiencing Red Ice withdrawal, and so are many other addicts.

…oh. They hadn’t considered that. Why hadn’t they considered that?

“ _Some_ people’re mad, they want their Ice, and they want the plastic pricks to quit playing human so things can go right again. Some _other_ people figure Blue’s Blue, can’t get it from the factory? Yeah whatever, they’ll take it from plastic veins if they gotta,” Margaux snarls, green eyes sharp as she looks up. For the first time she looks up, and there’s a feral rage curling her lips back from her teeth, and there’s a feral scream roaring in her throat.

RK900 takes a step forward, and another, and one more, until he’s right up against the window. If he breathed in the conventional sense, condensation from his breath would fog the glass, obscure his view, but he does not, and he can see just fine. He can see a desperate woman, an addict, suffering a slow withdrawal.

She is barely a danger, not much of one, but there are dozens of other people who are experiencing the same pain and they _are_. They’ve been approaching the attacks incorrectly. The scattered pattern, the inconsistent methods, not the work of a unified group, the result of a drug empire collapsing.

Some people are taking out the rage at android rights on the androids themselves. Alexis’ blood splattered on the ceiling, dripping down on her face. Was that a distributor looking for an easy mark? An example to make the rest scared?

…had they checked Alexis’ thirium supply? Had they checked **_any_** of the victims’ thirium supply? Not just what was spilt but what was in their systems and stored in their fridges? Every crime scene had blue blood painting the walls, but had it matched with the amount each victim should have had available?

RK900 doesn’t know. They don’t know, because they didn’t think to check. And what about the bagged thirium? Androids didn’t eat but apartments came with utilities, appliances, a fridge was useful to store blue blood. They had looked for obviously missing things, money, credit cards, physical identification, or pawnable items, but they hadn’t checked the refrigerators. Why would they?

“Well ain’t that just too fucking bad? I’ll make sure to shed a few tears for all those poor crackheads tonight, squeeze it in between the rapists and kiddie killers, yeah?” Detective Reed sneers, ugly and mean. Ugly and _malicious_.

There’s a bite so sharp RK900 hisses a breath he doesn’t need and watches the tense set of his partner’s (for the time) shoulders. The drawn up and aggressive posture, the tilt of his head, the flat of his palms on the table. His back is to the glass but RK900 inputs every available behaviour and draws the one conclusion: Defensive. Lashing out. Aggression used to mask underlying insecurity.

Margaux, with her face to the glass, stills. Eyes wide, nostrils flared, she stares at Detective Gavin Reed, and doesn’t seem to know what to say next. Whether to get angry, whether to duck down nervous (paranoid?), she’s facing down a jail time charge of six months or a fine she can’t pay. She’s given what information she had but does she dare go up against Reed right now?

He promised she could walk but cops lie all the time. Cops say anything to get the information they want; entrapment is common enough. RK900 has never witnessed it within the precinct but he knows it happens, knows it’s happening, and he wonders if this will be his first-hand experience.

“I need a location Goodfellow, an area, gimme a place,” Gavin snaps, barks, like the stereotyped Pit Bull he is. Margaux flinches, eyes back down, jaw working-working. Does she even know? That she knew the cause behind the attacks was impressive enough, but if she isn’t an active dealer, then what are the chances of her knowing _where_?

Gavin’s back is to the glass, RK900 can’t see his face, not his expression, but Margaux does, and something in it frightens her. Something written across that plainly furious face tells her what this means to him and what Gavin will do if she doesn’t give him what he wants. RK900 desperately wishes he could catch a glimpse of it.

“Orangelawn, there’s a—uh…check the basements,” Margaux mutters, brows knit together, fingers twitching. She’s not happy to say it, not glad to give it, but Gavin gets his lead and RK900 steps back and away from the glass. Their informant is not lying, her heart rate remains steady, her micro expressions match with reluctance and frustration.

She isn’t happy to say this, but she’s said it and there’s no taking it back. She wasn’t threatened, overtly, and she wasn’t entrapped. She was asked question and gave an answer. RK900 still does not have a first-hand account of entrapment to reference.

“Well, well, well, s’pose it was only a matter’a time, and I guess it was real easy for some other fuck to take Orangelawn after Merin got put away, huh?” Gavin snorts, amused in a dry way, an unamused way. 900 steps away from the glass, but stays in the room, monitoring what his temporary partner will no doubt ask about.

Margaux says nothing more, nothing of value, and Detective Reed takes her back to proceedings for her write up and official warning. That not one officer bats an eye says more than Reed bringing her in at all, but 900 is quickly learning that the law is far from rote.

“That was enlightening,” Detective Reed scoffs after Margaux has left and the Red Ice taskforce is being assembled. With the tip off provided, and the information gained, there is no small threat of violence. That there is a history between the taskforce and the neighbourhood in question all but ensures a violent outcome, or at least greeting.

“Yes, very enlightening,” 900 says, only half paying attention to the raid prep as he cross scans android autopsies with crime scenes. They hadn’t looked at the thirium levels before this, only how much was missing from the victim’s body, not how much should be in it and wasn’t there, or painted on the walls.

At his side, Detective Reed snorts, ugly and unhappy, grim. At his feet, Mamba perks up when she hears the tell-tale jingle of her raid vest.

The cross-reference yields no relevant information, neither holding the specific information he’s searching for. And, by the time he’s adjusted his search parameters, the team is ready.

“Happy hunting boys,” Detective Reed mutters as they all pile into their various vehicles.

Yes, happy hunting.

* * *

CN300s, like the later RK line, have base combat protocols. Though the CN’s protocol follows along the line of attack and guard. Attack dogs for commercial security, guard dogs for private.

Mamba, a three-year-old CN300, has a more advanced and violent attack protocol than most of her model. Her base breed is Pit Bull, something perceived as violent and equipped as such, and her secondary owner upgraded her to be a better fighter. Something worth betting on in the ring.

Now, as a police dog, Mamba is as lethal as any combat android. She keeps pace with RK900 as he kicks in the basement door. She tackles a Red Ice dealer with her full weight and takes him down with a snarl, keeps him down with her teeth at his throat.

While the task force sweeps the drug den, Mamba stands imposing and unmovable at his side. The backlit white of “ _Police Canine: CN300_ ” cuts itself out of the matte black of her vest. The grey of her fur, the white of her fur, only make her look perfectly suited for combat situations.

Standing over the cuffed and bruised humans, RK900 in his stark white jacket and cold blue designation, must look much the same. Something inhuman, something violent, but a leashed violence. Ready to be used, ready to hurt, at a moment’s suggestion.

“Building’s clear, cept for these, Anderson’s waiting in interrogation,” Agent Sheng reports, visor up, gun held safely down. RK900’s is strapped to his back, unneeded. He could retrieve it, fire it, and return it quicker than the human could aim his own.

Because humans are violent, but they were not built for violence. They can train, and often do, to be the best at the worst things. Killing may be a sport, war a game, combat and brutality are pleasures, to some. RK900 is not human and he was not created to take pleasure in brutality, he was only meant to be the best at it.

“Good work today everybody,” Detective Reed praises, rare for him, but the raid had been flawless. No life lost, barely any resistance, they were taking five suspects into custody and interrogation. If all went well, they would have their case wrapped up within the week.

And then they could move on to the next crime scene. Should he be happy? He is not.

“You too terminator,” Reed says, and RK900…blinks. His mind grinds to a halt and he stops. Takes stock. Of himself; functioning within ideal parameters. Of the scene; chemicals spilt, bullet casings scattered, speckles of red blood, a hundred pounds of crystal Red Ice. Of Gavin Reed; smiling, **_smiling_** , and it isn’t sardonic, sarcastic, or mocking.

Genuine praise and a genuine smile?

“And robo-pup.”

Mamba wags lazily, happy to be included, and addressed by her favourite human without bribery.

And then that’s that. Then the squad is clearing out and the suspects are being piled into transport and 900 is riding shot gun with Detective Reed, Mamba in the back. They don’t talk, thankfully, and their silence stays the same. Back to the station, back to what’s normal, and away from the violence of programming.

* * *

“Worst fucking luck,” Lieutenant Anderson grumbles as a roll of thunder shakes the house. Outside the spring shower is breaking and pouring down, no end in sight. Inside, Connor is sitting on the floor with Sumo and Mamba while 900 fiddles with the television. There’s nothing good to watch, according to the lieutenant, so he’s in charge of finding something mindless.

He can’t choose. He doesn’t know what would constitute as mindless and he doesn’t want to disappoint, so he switches them erratically. While Connor wipes down Sumo’s dripping coat and the lieutenant has a beer.

Their picnic basket is resting forlornly on the kitchen table, turned upside down to drain onto a dishtowel, innards scattered around it. There are various snacks, a healthy selection of fruits, fizzy drinks, two lone beers, and the packets of thirium are chilling in the fridge. A picnic in pieces, because, as the lieutenant had said, they had the worst fucking luck.

They’d made it ten paces from the car before the sky burst and they all had to admit it was a terrible day for a picnic. So back to the house they’ve come, listening to the rain pound the roof, listening to the thunder break the sky. It would be awkward and uncomfortable if Connor weren’t here, as it is, it’s only uncomfortable.

Because what does he say? How does he act? Does the lieutenant expect him to pick something already? Should he apologise for suggesting the outing in the first place?

RK900 doesn’t know, and that sits unsettled in the pit of his non-food related stomach.

“So, you catch the game last night?” Lieutenant Anderson asks after a stilted quiet, clearly uncomfortable as well. They…don’t know each other very well.

Yes, RK900 has Connor’s preloaded memories. Everything from activation to the Cyberlife raid, the automatic uplink and uploads ensuring everything his predecessor had learned was utilized in his own functioning. In that way, he knows _Hank_. He knows this belligerent, jaded police lieutenant who nearly drowned in grief but found a life preserver in empathy.

Of all the people he knows, Hank Anderson might be the one 900 knows the best, and the worst. Lieutenant Anderson considers Connor a dear friend, considers him family in a sense. He calls Connor “ _son_ ” and treats him no less than a human, far better than most. There is a kindness to their relationship that RK900 is _jealous_ of.

Heart achingly, bone breakingly jealous, because he’s seen it from the inside, and he wants it, but he’s on the outside now. Lieutenant Henry Anderson thinks of him as Connor adjacent, 900 is his partner’s family, in a sense, but he _isn’t_ Connor. So here they are, familiar strangers, uncomfortable in the silence and stretched thin familiarity.

“I do not watch sports, Lieutenant, I find many of them confusing and their rules…arbitrary,” 900 replies after a quiet too long, because he doesn’t know how to fill it. Lieutenant Anderson enjoys simple pleasures, sports competitions on the weekends, a cold beer, a square meal, listening to his heavy metal, taking his dog for a walk. Or at least, that’s what Connor had gleaned in the scant week he’d spent with the detective before the revolution.

After that, there is nothing, because the uplink to Cyberlife was disconnected and RK900 was activated to form his own memories. His own memories of Lieutenant Anderson are clinical, detached, there is friendliness but it’s a passing thing. This is the most time, outside of work, they’ve spent in each other’s presence.

“Christ, you’re worse than Mr “I fail to see the point of sports when they’re all rigged” over there,” the lieutenant scoffs, mimicking Connor’s voice rather poorly, but the inflection is perfect. He captures Connor’s precise inflection so easily, something between professional and sarcastic that is entirely RK800.

On the floor, Connor snorts, and pings a quick; not wrong, sports r so stupid. Why he chose to say that electronically instead of verbally is unknown. Well, no. Connor’s face is buried in Sumo’s fluffy stomach, now that the St Bernard is dry again, and words spoken into dog belly are often muffled. Particularly when a Pit Bull lays across your back with her full weight.

“He says sports are stupid and he isn’t wrong,” 900 relates, smiling at the squawking ping of; traitor!

Or maybe the face plant into dog had nothing to do with it and everything to do with Connor not wanting his partner to hear his continued disparaging remarks against the world of sport. But RK900 couldn’t be sure, it was anyone’s guess really.

“Oh, s’that so? So, I guess all those baking competitions are real, huh?” Lieutenant Anderson snorts, explosive and mocking in a different way, his own way. But it’s playful, this is well-meant complaining.

On the floor Connor squawks, again, but verbally this time and loud enough to be heard over the impairment of doggy soundproofing. Mamba perks up, looking over her shoulder at him as Connor squirms under her, obviously wanting up. RK900 sends a ping of his own and ignores his predecessor; stay there, good girl.

“Food network can’t afford a second fucking ice-cream machine and all those career chefs just so happen to forget to add the fucking salt? Get real Connor, it’s all rigged, they’re in it for the drama!” Anderson howls, grinning with too many teeth, and laughing outright when Connor finally darts up. His hair is rumpled and there is a comb’s worth of dog hair decorating his sweater, but his face is pure determination.

“They do not! The integrity of Hell’s Kitchen is unassailable, and you expose nothing but your own ignorance in maligning them,” Connor protests, reaching up very seriously to pet Mamba’s head. She’s draped across his shoulders like a particularly fashion forward scarf and is content to remain there as Connor launches into an impassioned (and deliberately pretentious) defence of his cooking shows.

_“They are skilled artisans with years of practical study under their belts, Hank! Of course, the pressure of a competition setting would unnerve some, but the majority often remain calm despite the circumstances.”_

_“Of course, there’s a difference between hand whipped eggs and beater whipped! The level of control alone!”_

_“Wrestlers are known for throwing their fights with as much melodrama and spectacle as the corporate shareholders allow. If any of it was real, half the competitors would be deceased!”_

_“Several studies have showcased the devastating damage of the repeated head trauma experienced by professional football players, Hank. Forgive me for not seeing the fun in a bloodsport.”_

RK900 sits by as the pair argue back and forth over the integrity of the food network and sports federation. Mamba barks along happily, enjoying swinging around on Connor’s shoulders, and after a while, Sumo hops on to the sofa with 900. He gets to pet a big, fluffy head as Hank doggedly hangs onto his love of all things sports, and Connor paces the room with widely thrown arms and half-smothered laughter.

It’s far more entertaining than either sports or food competitions could be, and 900 likes it. He likes sitting there while they fill the space with words and laughter and companionship. He likes being able to enjoy something so non-violent, and the lack of expectation they both have for him. Neither of them ask him to join their conversation, nor do they talk over him when he throws something in.

It’s easy, and he likes it. Very much in fact. If he had the experience to base it on, he would call this familial, but he doesn’t so he does not. But he would like to.

The faux argument tapers off when the streetlights come on and golden light pools in the living room. The rain never stops, never lets up, but the argument does. Winding down into something less belligerent and turning to casual small talk. As Connor wanders into the kitchen to get Hank’s dinner, and the packets of thirium he left chilling.

Hank complains about the “ _rabbit food_ ” Connor’s been forcing him to eat, but he doesn’t leave a single vegetable on his plate and even drinks the fruit smoothie Connor pointedly gives him. Not a beer in sight, not even when 900 casts a quick glance over his shoulder.

Dinner is there, in the living room still, with two dogs piled on and around, and the news spooling out on tv. There is a report of the case they just solved, the androids being attacked for Red Ice additive, and the men currently in cells awaiting trial. Drug dealers of some note, nothing high ranked, nobody the general public would know, but the precinct all knows this is only the start.

“Heard you and robo-mutt were great on the raid, maybe you should ask Fowler to be on the taskforce full time,” Hank suggests when the report ends, and the celebrity segment starts. And his hand stills mid-pet, fingers twitching atop Sumo’s head. He…he hadn’t thought of a full-time position…should he have?

As it was, he was being shuffled between positions; beat-patrol, cruiser-patrol, various taskforces, detective cases. He was qualified for all of them, and then some, so it was no problem, but perhaps he should’ve been focusing on finding what suited him best. A detective? More leeway to do as he pleased and follow the leads he wanted?

Or the taskforce, like the lieutenant had said, he worked well with them. He was built for combat and Red Ice raids often devolved into such, though he preferred negotiation situations. Did he want to do something that he was built for, something he was specifically good at, or would something unconventional be better suited for him?

He doesn’t know, he doesn’t…Stress Level: 11%

“Just throwing it out there,” and the lieutenant keeps his eyes glued on the tv, completely enraptured with the latest gossip.

Connor doesn’t look at him, doesn’t say anything aloud, but the ping he gets is; supporting, supporting and…900 can’t help himself, he whips around to look his predecessor in the eye, because that second sentiment. He couldn’t be right about it, right? Even though he desperately wants to be. Even though he wants it so very much.

He gets a; firm nod, pursed lips, loving, _loving_ , **_loving_**. Connor, RK800 loves him. Enjoys his presence, appreciates his company. They are friends, _family_ , and Connor will support him in whatever decision he does or does not make.

To: RK800. Connor: Thank you. I love you too. _Thank you_.

* * *

In his database, Lieutenant Anderson becomes Hank, because things are easier when he doesn’t have to question everything. His place, his acceptance, how wanted he is. Hank does not hold him at arm’s length because he does not enjoy RK900’s presence, he does it out of respect, because RK900 doesn’t seem as approachable as Connor.

—Correction. Hank thought he didn’t _want_ to be approached as familiarly as Connor. Had observed his clear-headed detachment, had taken note of his calm efficiency and strait-laced nature, and merely provided what he thought 900 wanted. There was affection in that, affection a careful arm’s length away.

The arm’s length evaporates over the next sparse weeks. Hank slaps him on the back, much the same as he does Connor. Hank invites him out to Jimmy’s after work, and he accepts sometimes. Partly to keep an eye on the lieutenant’s drinking, so Connor can have a break, but mostly because he enjoys being included.

And he enjoys group outings, _socializing_. There’s a wealth of observational data at bars, from the patrons to the servers, to their own group squeezed into a booth. Hank never expects him to speak but never talks over him, makes others quiet down if they try, and it’s appreciated. Deeply, greatly.

Sometimes they go as a group, officers getting off shift, co-workers eager to start the weekend. Friday nights are interesting, more so when they choose somewhere other than Jimmy’s. Trendy, hipster bars closer to Detroit’s nightlife. When Tina brings her girlfriend and they laugh together so in love.

Thursdays are for calmer cafés, with mood lighting and the smell of coffee soaked into every inch. Chris comes along then, usually earlier in the evening. He picks up the same pastries, jam tarts, for his wife and always has new pictures of his son to share. Damian in a highchair, Damian playing with blocks, Damian crawling towards his broadly smiling father.

Saturday night is…there’s only one Saturday, and it’s more work than play. Hank gets a tip off from an informant, about another android related Red Ice case, and a meeting that’s going down at Detroit’s newest, hottest, android friendly club. Fowler assigns his usual suspects, and 900 sits at the bar, with Detective Reed, while Hank and Connor disappear into the crowd.

It isn’t bad, sitting calmly in the cacophony, letting the rest of it pass him by as he listens to Connor’s running commentary. They’re across the room, they’re outside the lounge, Hank is in a booth and Connor is dancing with a stranger, keeping his cover. Detective Reed makes good company in their shared silence, he drinks something electric pink with an umbrella. 900 drinks nothing.

But it’s companionable. A shared experience, though it isn’t much of one. Hank meets his informant in the bathroom, and they’re able to ID new key players in this restructuring world. They don’t make any arrests that night, they’re only there for reconnaissance, to tag and they’ll bag later.

Hank leaves first, looking rumpled around the collar, flushed in the face. He plays drunk and stumbles into his car. Connor leaves next, with an arm wrapped around his waist and a handsome AP hanging off his every word. He sends a quick; gone tonight, don’t wait up, then he’s out the door and into an auto-cab.

900 leaves with Detective Reed, they go together like they came together, and no eyes follow them either. There’s nothing special about the darkly handsome human or the primly put together android, nothing special about Connor in his nice dress shirt leaving with another android, nothing special about an older drunk leaving alone. They all go in, they all come out, and nobody’s the wiser about any of it.

Climbing into Detective Reed’s car is almost routine by then, though Mamba is missing. There’s glitter stuck to their shoes and the smell of something fruity clinging to their clothes, but it’s still companionable. They don’t talk, but Detective Reed turns on the radio, hums along to an early aughties’ song.

“With the taste of your lips, I’m on a ride~”

* * *

Spring in Detroit is…wet. It rains every day of the next week and 900 is forced to order an auto-cab every morning, instead of taking his usual walk, because walking along the ice-slicked pavements is too difficult. Rather, it’s too difficult for Mamba, even with the heated booties and coat he gets for her; he was made for harsh terrains, she was not.

So, an auto-cab every morning for a week, and Detroit rush hour traffic every morning for a week. He’s never late to work, despite the half hour spent in bumper to bumper misery, but the tedium takes its toll. Not on him, he won’t allow it to, but Mamba hates the creeping-crawling trips through damp Detroit.

Every morning, as soon as they get to the precinct, she does a single sedate round to make sure everything and everyone are where they should be, then she goes to have a nap in her dog bed. The one she’d dragged under Detective Reed’s desk, shoved into the space his legs don’t reach, and used her most potent puppy dog eyes to keep right where she’d placed it.

 _“Hey metal man, your fuckin’ dog’s bothering me again!”_ Gavin had yelled that first morning, barely looking up from his report. Mamba had already been comfortably stuffed into the space by his feet.

Hank had rolled his eyes, Chris had laughed, and most of the precinct had ignored it. Everyone was used to Gavin Reed shouting and carrying on and being the loudest thing in the precinct. It would be odd if he wasn’t, be _missed_ if he wasn’t.

 _“You’re free to order her to move,”_ 900 had replied, calmly, from the break room again, this time sharing a companionable mug of warmed thirium with Ezra, an android patrol officer. Mamba always waited until he was gone to do anything concerning Reed, knew they’d both be more reluctant to do anything then.

That first morning, 900 had watched as Gavin Reed huffed, rolled his eyes, and kept on typing. He hadn’t moved Mamba, hadn’t ordered her, in fact, right that moment, 900 had realised that Reed had never ordered Mamba. He would order around others; his fellow detectives, officers, all of the androids that crossed his path, but never Mamba.

And then, 900 realised that Reed had scaled back his scathing, anti-android rhetoric a considerable amount. A _significant_ amount if his quick data check had been correct.

It was, it had been, and it still is. 900 had a sizable data pool to input into the relevant tests and they’d all shown him the same thing: Detective Gavin Michael Reed was far less hostile to androids four months into the post-Revolution world than he had been previously. Interesting.

“Morning tin can,” Reed yawns this morning, another Friday morning, this one sans vicious murder. Human or android, there’s less murder happening in the spotty downpour, so that’s nice at least.

“Good morning, Detective Reed,” he replies, dropping to his knees to take off Mamba’s raincoat and booties. She gives him a happy lick, saliva wet on his cheek, and plods off to make her customary rounds.

He has thought about going through the paperwork to register her as an official Red Ice taskforce dog. She’s good at drug raids and sturdier than the flesh-blood canines the taskforce sometimes uses. She takes orders better too, can be sent to run surveillance with better results than a typical drone. She would be the ideal taskforce canine.

“Always with the Detective, and always just me, does that make me special?” Reed…teases? 900 isn’t sure, takes a few seconds longer than necessary in standing so he can consider the sentence. Is Detective Reed attempting a casual conversation? Something beyond their professional dialogue? Is he…trying to be _friendly_?

Odd. RK900 knows the man is capable of it. Tina wouldn’t suffer a _completely_ irredeemable asshole, as Hank put it, but Tina is human and doesn’t have the same history with Reed that Hank does. Tina is a beat officer who’s never worked a case as Reed’s superior, and as little as he knows about their past conflict, RK900 knows that is the root of it. Hank and Detective Reed do not get along because they once worked a case where Hank made the wrong call and Reed was forced to pay for it.

RK900 suspects an android was a part of that case as well, but he has not looked. And he will not look. Though he’s infinitely curious, and wonders what’s put Detective Reed in a good mood today. Good enough to stretch their morning greetings beyond just that.

“Most of our colleagues have indicated a distaste for being addressed by their titles, I’ve since taken their individual preferences into consideration,” he…answers, being as specific and clear as possible, lest Detective Reed misunderstand him in some way. RK900 knows miscommunication can happen so easily, without realising, and he’d like to avoid it if possible.

Reed nods, a soft “ _huh_ ” under his breath before he’s scooting his chair back, automatically, for Mamba to duck under his desk. She’s finished with her rounds, already? How long did he spend standing there thinking out a precise answer? One minute, twelve seconds. Oh.

“Yeah well, they’re right for once, just call me Gavin, tin can,” Detective Reed scoffs, pulling his chair back and re-settling at his desk. 900 has the sneaking suspicion Gavin Reed enjoys Mamba’s presence as much as she enjoys his, for some reason he’s yet to learn. Not that he’s asked. He doesn’t really want to; he’d prefer to figure it out on his own.

And, it’s as he’s folding Mamba’s coat and tucking her things into his locker that he realises; Gavin was waiting for a name in turn. That was how conversation niceties went, yes? Person A gave their name, or preferred title, Person B accepted it, then Person B gave their own in return. It was a conversational circuit, closed and grounded when two names were exchanged.

900 has left the circuit open, unclosed. Should he close it now? But…Gavin Reed already knows his name, RK900, he doesn’t have any other name. As he sits at his own desk, interfacing with the desktop to scan the previous day’s reports, he wonders if he _should_ have a name. Connor had a name, but Connor had been given that.

Cyberlife had intended for the RK800 line to integrate with human police stations, to operate as well as and better than a human detective. In order to achieve such lofty goals, the RK800 would need to be able to put people at ease, victims and suspects, humans and androids. He had been given the name Connor because it was unassuming but notable enough, something masculine but not overtly so.

The RK900 line had not been given names because why would military weapons need names?

Did he want a name? How did a person pick one? How had other androids chosen their names after the revolution? How had Markus? North? Were they given, found, handpicked?

900 didn’t know, but he would like to, he’d have to ask around. And he would start at the precinct, because that would be easy enough.

People started to filter in as the morning wore on and the rain poured harder. Half the precinct was in before the official start of the workday, nearly all of the patrol officers, half the office staff and aides, three detectives. No Hank or Connor, but that wasn’t unusual.

The first android 900 sees is an office aide, her name is Divya and they’ve spoken once before. He sends her a casual message request as she walks by, and almost wishes she’d kept her LED in so he’d have visual confirmation of her receiving it.

Message Request: Accepted.

From: PB600. Divya: Hello, did you need something?

He nods, slightly, as she looks back, a simple smile on her face. She’s one of the few who’ve started getting personalised cosmetic changes, her hair is bubble gum pink and her projection skin is darker than her base model. She seems happy with the visual changes.

To: PB600. Divya: I was wondering, how did you choose your name?

It’s only after he’s sent the question that he thinks to be worried about it. Is it an appropriate one to ask? Should he have asked it verbally instead? In a more private setting? He half wished Connor was here to ask, but he doubted Connor would know either. To his knowledge, Connor have never had to question his name, so much of himself yes, but never his name.

From: PB600. Divya: A baby name site. http://www.magicbabynames.com/. I searched until I found something I liked.

From: PB600. Divya: I knew it when I saw it. Good luck! 😊

The emoji beams at him, encouraging and happy, like Divya herself, and 900 wonders if it could be that easy. He’d know it when he saw it? Okay. Then it shouldn’t be complicated.

And the cases he has aren’t complicated, routine break-ins with the usual suspects, complaints filed about the destruction of public property, an incident with a suspected dog fighting ring. Because no, they never had found the original one Mamba had belonged to. Though that hadn’t been considered high priority and evidence was hard to come by anyway, they had more important, human-shaped cases to deal with.

RK900 works through the first half of the day, typing out reports, reading the new ones as they come in, accessing whatever files he needs directly from the database. The precinct fills in and fills out as the day drags. Connor and Hank saunter in just after midday, as usual for a Friday, and Mamba wanders out to greet them. Hank gives her a thirium treat.

Sometimes he takes the lunchtime break, sometimes he doesn’t, and 900 elects to not today. He finally has a good chance to open the website Divya recommended him and start his search…which isn’t as easy as he’d thought. To start, he has to have a starter name, and the algorithm will provide names similar to it.

900 debates for a moment, bending and unbending a paperclip as he does, then enters the only logical choice; Connor. The responses get grouped into three categories; male, female, either or, and he chooses the neutral category for a start. Parker, Hayden, Taylor, Jordan, Riley, Quinn; no.

900 blinks, bending the clip as he processes, no none of these seem right. None of these _feel_ right. He has no idea what right will feel like but he doesn’t feel anything at all when he mulls over the cognitive taste of any of these. Back, and why not girls’ names? He should keep himself open to all options.

Chloe, Grace, Fawn, Halo, Sansa, Bethany; no again. Back again, to the male names. Nolan, Lewis, Josh, Callum, Grant, Mitchell, Carter; **_no_**. None of them settle into the compact space behind his thirium pump, they don’t even rattle against his regulator. None of them are right, none of them are him, and this may be harder than he thought.

The page is still up when the lunchbreak winds down, officers returning to their desks, Reed stopping at his elbow instead of continuing toward his own.

“Magic Baby Names? What, you got a bouncing baby plastic on the way?” Reed jokes, lighter hearted than 900 has ever heard him and…and placing something on 900’s desk.

—No, not _something_ , a mug. RK900’s mug with the character he still hasn’t cared to look up, it’s full of thirium. Dark blue in the hard light of the precinct, sitting still and deep by his hand. Ready for him to take a sip, take a drink.

“No Detective, I was…considering a formal name, beside my model number,” he adds, because he feels like he must. To make things clear, to not feel like he’s hiding anything. Despite this being personal business which he is entitled to keep to himself if he so chooses. The urge to make his intentions explicitly clear bubbles up regardless and nearly chokes him, though he doesn’t need to breathe.

At his elbow, Reed makes a soft, contemplative noise, a hummed “ _huh_ ” and scratches the side of his scarred nose. There’s none of the judgement 900 has come to expect from the man, none of the sneering condescension or poorly hidden vitriol. Whatever leaf Reed is trying to turn, he’s doing a good enough job at it that his true emotions aren’t easily perceived.

“I didn’t realise you’d want one, it’s been a while since you activated, but I mean shit, took _me_ years to even think about it so what the hell right?” Reed laughs, good-natured and genuine, like he laughs with Tina, like he laughs with Chris. He even pats 900 on the shoulder, light and friendly, and 900 has no idea why.

“Good luck tin can, tell me when you find something, and quit with the detective,” Reed says, another pat on the shoulder, and then he’s moving over to his desk. Where Mamba is patiently waiting to rest her head on his feet again. Where 900 can see the bare top of the man’s head ducked behind his monitor.

Gavin Michael Reed hadn’t always been the detective’s name? 900 hadn’t known that, had never even thought to ask. He’d seen the generally accessible files of each employee at the precinct and taken the information in them as a given. Gavin Reed was Gavin Reed and no former name had been listed, for obvious reasons of course.

…but…but in a way, it’s reassuring. He’d forgotten that humans didn’t always use the names they’d been given either. Names were personal things, identifiers, the majority kept the ones they’d been assigned but others changed them. Could change them. Android or human, a name could be theirs, and 900 had forgotten that.

He hums as he commits that thought to memory, so he doesn’t forget again, and takes a sip of the warmed thirium. A new method of ingesting the necessary bio-fuel, something to add variety and spice to life, so to speak. 900 had never tried it himself, never saw the need, but Reed…but _Gavin_ had done this for him.

A friendly gesture, something nice. A warm cup of thirium couldn’t make up for all the things Gavin Reed had previously called him, the way he’d previously treated Connor, but, if nothing else, it was an offer. An offer to change, an offer to be better. Anyone could be better than their previous self, be more, be kind, 900 knew that.

And, maybe he would try warm thirium more after this. The taste was the same but the experience was ever so slightly different. Almost like he was enjoying a cup of coffee, almost like he was re-energized and ready to finish the rest of the day.

Across from him, behind his monitor, Gavin Reed smiled, and reached down to sneak Mamba a treat.

* * *

The miserable rain sprinkles on and off for the next two weeks with blazing sun speckled in between. Some mornings are gorgeous, the kind of morning where a few minutes spent looking out the window are necessary. 900 does that, stands under the hanging plants with a cup of warm thirium, with Mamba laying across his feet, and watches the sun paint the world.

Some mornings are dreary and wet, feeling colder than the winter that just swept past, though he knows it only _feels_ that way. Those are the mornings he lies on the bed he does not need and listens to the rain fall. With Mamba sprawled across his chest, eyes closed and content.

The cases involving androids don’t stop, don’t taper off, they come in thick and steady. Always another, always more. Androids being attacked by former owners who can’t accept the new laws. Androids being stolen off the streets but drug manufacturers who refuse to watch their empires fall. Androids treated as less than…less to the point of filing discrimination reports for the incidents that progressed to violence.

900 is used to always working, a full workload is ideal, it means he doesn’t have time unaccounted for or inactive. He’s always doing something-doing something, and even when he’s home, there are things to consider. Dinner with Mrs Singh, dinner with Conner and Hank, another attempt at their ill-fated picnic…a name.

A name is something he wants, something that’ll be his, but he can’t find quite exactly what he’s looking for. Divya gave him the baby name site and it doesn’t do much for him. He finds names that are acceptable, Nathan, Callum, Richard, simple names that don’t stand too far apart. He finds names that are delightfully outlandish, Elrond, Sammael, Noctis, names that would turn heads and throw people off, but they aren’t his.

He asks more androids around the precinct. Tyler, a JB300, used to work with a human operator who’d been reassigned to another station, that woman had been very kind to him and had contacted him after the Revolution. Her maiden name was Taylor and he’d chosen Tyler because it was so close to that, familiar in a way that felt right.

The evidence clerk, Julius, had said the same as Divya, that he’d found something that just worked for him. A name that he’d seen somewhere, a name he’d heard, something that fit.

Ezra, a formerly civilian security model, had had his name before the Revolution, even before his deviancy. He’d been bought by a widow as a security companion, to act as a replacement for the son she’d lost. Ezra had been the name she’d given him, not the same as her dead son, but “ _close enough_ ” she’d said, and Ezra had seen fit to keep it.

Why? 900 hadn’t wanted to ask, he’d thought that would be too personal.

And Ezra’s partner, Mal, had gone by three different ones before they found something they liked. 900 remembered the others, though he’d retired them from general memory. Mal had told him that—Mal had said a name didn’t have to be right the very first time. He could try names on like humans tried clothes, feel them out for fit, for compatibility.

If he didn’t like the first one, throw it out, find something new, “ _find something you_ ” had been their exact words. With such a genuine emotion, though 900 couldn’t put a specific name to what it was.

And in that moment, Mal had sounded so much like Detective Reed—like Gavin. Genuine and sure, that he could do this, that they would care when he did.

On his chest, Mamba huffs, presses her ear closer to his pump. On the roof, the rain picks up, crashing heavier-heavier. In the bed he doesn’t need, 900 orders an auto-cab and opens another name list.

* * *

“Shit, it’s really coming down,” Gavin whistles at the end of a long Monday. Half of it spent on a case rife with contradiction and missing evidence, the other half spent tracking down witnesses and coaxing them to speak. 900 was ready to go home and spend some time laying on his bed with Mamba on his chest.

Mamba was very ready to do the same, impatiently pacing the precinct in her raincoat and booties. Even some of the officers cooing over her didn’t soothe her impatience.

“Yes Gavin, you should leave before the late-night traffic starts,” 900 advises, ordering himself another auto-cab, resigned when the nearest one reports a fifteen-minute delay. Fifteen minutes were more than enough time for a healthy traffic jam to form and choke the streets. He would like to get home before eight, but that wasn’t going to happen.

At his side, Gavin nods, shoving a few case files into the messenger bag he’s started bringing with him. He’s said it was easier than running out to the car whenever he needed something and maybe getting drenched on the way back. The logic was sound but 900 failed to see why the explanation needed to be made in the first place.

He thought the Venom themed messenger bag was nice, though he’d had to do a quick internet search when he first saw it. He hadn’t thought Gavin would be a fan of superheroes, or anti-heroes as the case might be, but it was a fitting accessory.

“Yeah yeah, see you tomorrow, robo-cop,” Gavin mutters, frowning when a file doesn’t fit properly, jerking them all out and starting again. 900 arches a brow but doesn’t say anything, Gavin is probably tired, humans often have trouble with hand-eye coordination when tired. Not tired enough that 900 would suggest not driving though.

Gavin was an excellent driver, he knew that from experience. Three hours of sleep after a long day, involving a foot chase and interrogation? Gavin would be fine to drive. Hopped up on two times the recommended daily intake of coffee and physically shaking? Still fine to drive. Not medically advisable, but fine, nonetheless. It was almost superhuman.

Two minutes tick by as Gavin tries and fails to get the files in properly, cursing under his breath, teeth grit and eyes narrowed. 900 lets him fight with it for another minute clear before he casually bats away the man’s hands and arranges it all himself. There’s a casualness in it, the easy way Gavin gives up the files and huffs a grunt, arms crossed.

He’s angry, or rather, he’s frustrated, but it isn’t with RK900, and isn’t that interesting? Isn’t that new? 900 gets the files levelled off easily and plucks a balled up piece of scrap from the messenger bag, the offender keeping the files from settling properly. He sets the files, tosses the ball, and holds the bag out to Gavin with a calm smile.

The auto-cab remains fifteen minutes away.

“Thanks tin can,” Gavin says, with no malice, no reluctance. He takes his bag and grabs up his umbrella, ready to head out and beat the traffic. Across the room, Mamba is begging treats from Ezra, she knows which pocket he keeps them in, and she isn’t above whining to get them. 900 knows he should probably discourage bad behaviour, not let her form bad habits, but it’s raining, and they’ll be here for a little while longer. She can have a treat.

Gavin heads for the doors and gets as far as them before he stops and turns back with a confused look.

“You and canine wonder waiting on Anderson or something?” Gavin asks, frowning hard enough that it tugs at the scar across his nose. 900 rarely sees that happen, because, unlike the irritated, furious, and generally fed-up frowns Gavin gives most frequently, there is a second dimension to a confused frown. One that involves drawn tight brows and squinted eyes in a tableau not very unlike a disgruntled cat.

Or Mamba when someone didn't capitulate to the power of puppy eyes and give her a treat.

“No Gavin, Hank and Connor left two hours ago. We’re waiting on an auto-cab,” 900 explains, knowing full well Hank would come get him if he called and asked. Or Connor would. Despite neither of them appreciating Detroit’s later rush hour, and Connor’s own growing hatred of the unpredictable spring weather.

His predecessor has also developed something close to road rage and enjoys the unlocked speed of Hank’s manual vehicle. RK900 still isn’t quite sure how Connor coaxes a consistent 135 mph out of the Oldsmobile every time he drives it; there’s been no after-factory work done on it, beyond maintenance, and the top speed listed by the manufacturer was 113 mph. 900 doesn’t particularly want to think about a furious 135 mph on slick Detroit roads, nor does he want to bother either of them.

“Auto-cab? Those fucking things take forever,” Gavin snorts derisively, but his disdain isn’t unearned. Auto-cabs have a notorious tendency to never arrive on time, despite massive software overhauls and ongoing work on the algorithms. Nothing developers could do could accurately account for real world conditions.

Or, perhaps, the auto-cabs had become deviant too, and tardiness was their rebellion.

“Nah, you and wonder mutt can catch a ride with me, you’re on the way I think,” Gavin shrugs, and 900…he…what?

“What?” he asks, confused, thrown off. Across the room Mamba stops to look at him, she’s broadcasting a clear; ??? and he feels that. ??? is accurate.

“What? Nobody ever offer you a lift before?” Gavin asks, voice light, voice joking, but 900 shakes his head. No. No one ever has.

Hank and Conner don’t offer as much as they suggest he come with them the few times they all finish work at the same time. Sometimes they wait for him to finish up, and sometimes he waits for them, but there’s no conversational transaction. They do not ask, he does not ask, things are assumed, and he’s dropped home.

“Jeeze, it’s not that serious tin can, just c’mon, before we both get stuck in traffic,” Gavin sighs, rolling his eyes the same as ever, but there’s a strange note in his voice. An emotion 900 can’t pinpoint. And…okay.

Gavin’s offering to drop him and Mamba home instead of letting them wait for an auto-cab that will get them stuck in traffic. How kind of him.

900 picks up his umbrella and sends a message for Mamba (Come) and follows after Reed. They don’t talk, as usual, but there’s something tense about it. Tense in a way they haven’t been since Gavin’s worked through some of his android-phobia. And 900 wonders if Gavin’s hatred _does_ come from a place of fear, but he doesn’t ask.

All the way down to the ground floor and out the front door, into the rain that’s beating down furiously now. He has no idea why Gavin doesn’t use the underground parking lot, and as he’s sliding into the passenger seat, he asks.

“You mean that death trap? One way in, one way out. Who the fuck thought that was a good idea?” Gavin scoffs as he pulls out of the precinct gates, joining the flow of traffic smoothly. There’s a note of emotion in his voice, under the accustomed distaste and displeasure, 900 hears it clearer here, and he wonders.

There’s a blank space in Detective Reed’s case file, six months where he was still on payroll but not cleared for active duty. If there was an injury, a regular injury, the information would’ve been readily available, but it isn’t. And Gavin is still complaining about death trap building construction; it’s the most Gavin’s ever spoken to him.

“Like it’s not something we’ve been fucking complaining about for the last two decades or whatever the fuck. Poor city planning gets bitches killed,” Gavin growls, overtaking an auto-cab too fast for anybody’s good.

Oh, he should cancel his. Still fifteen minutes out.

“I dunno how much history Cyberlife downloaded into you but the 2020’s were **_shit_** , tin man, complete shit. There were how many protests? And police ‘cincts burned? I mean, not that I’m against burning that shit to the ground, but you’d think they’d learn from that right? Wrong!” Gavin swears up and down and up again. It’s the most he’s ever heard Gavin speak, period, it’s almost rambling but it isn’t irritating.

900 listens idly, to Gavin’s rant about infrastructure, and the segue into the corruption still rotting the government from the inside out. The FBI and CIA are the government attack dogs now, more than the police, though the cops aren’t great either. A cognitive dissonance that doesn’t seem to connect for him that he is _also_ a cop, though Gavin Reed seems to have a healthy dose of self-loathing that might play too well into his occupational status.

Gavin Reed is also a fan of obscenities and vulgarity, but most of the officers are. 900 has heard more curses spill from Hank’s lips than exist in most people’s vernacular. He’s heard Tina and Chris swearing themselves blue, he’s even heard android officers curse, specifically Mal, but he supposes that’s part of this job.

Even Connor swears, and he’s been deviant barely a breath longer than 900’s been activated. Law enforcement was an interesting field of study, and work, of course.

“And I mean, who the **_fuck_** decides buzzing out guns is good practice? Yeah, yeah safety measures and accountability, but who the fuck has time to ask _permission_ to grab their fucking piece when some fuck’s got a gun in your face?” Gavin asks, rhetorical of course, and Mamba barks happily. She likes Gavin, for some reason 900 doesn’t entirely understand, the man is never cruel to her, but he’s far from the nicest person she knows.

Connor spoils her rotten with treats and toys, Mrs Singh takes her on walks every market day, 900 spoils her even more rotten, but Gavin is probably her favourite person. By the slimmest of margins but the margin is still there.

“Exactly robo-pup!” Gavin practically shouts and takes a corner too hard when 900 directs him. He doesn’t direct him to almost crash into a light pole, but there’s not much he can do about that. His danger assessment software engages automatically and there’s a 50% chance they will get into a minor accident under present conditions. 50% is a solid 5% lower than usual, Gavin is being **_careful_** , how thoughtful.

“And the tin cans couldn’t carry guns either, we could take ‘em out but they couldn’t be backup. Shitty policies all around,” Gavin sneers, throwing on his blinker as he’s mid-turn, which is better than usual.

He doesn’t seem to mind 900 staying quiet, not answering or humming in commiseration. He glances over once in a while, but only to make sure 900 is still listening, before he launches into another angry tirade about bureaucracy. Though, there’s a pattern. 900 processes the common themes running through every complaint, the underlying tones and abstract emotions he isn’t familiar with.

He wasn’t built to be a social model and wasn’t created with a socialization protocol, but he can collect and analyse data better than most. A qualitative case study like Gavin Reed wouldn’t be validated by any panels any time soon, but 900 didn’t need peer validation for the data he’d processed. Gavin was traumatised, possible PTSD.

…interesting.

“You know that PM800 beat cop? Uh fuckin Mal? Yeah, they were on the force before the revolution and still refuses to carry a gun. Gonna get themself scrapped,” Gavin grumbles, leaning forward to squint through the rain coming down heavier than ever. They’ve slowed down too. Oh, they’re almost home.

900 hadn’t even noticed, he’d been too caught up in…Gavin. Distracted by how animated and passionate the man got over things that mattered to him. Had he ever been this passionate about hating androids? Hypothesis: Prior to traumatic experience; no.

Was Gavin like Hank then? Had he lost someone to an android adjacent accident? Had he been the victim of one such accident? No. Data suggested it was a work-related incident, something that had been wiped from the records, or personally redacted after his return.

Maybe, someday, he could ask that question. Maybe, someday, Gavin would answer it. Today was not that day, but today was insightful at least. He’d heard more from the man than he ever had and that was interesting, that was _reassuring_. Gavin had spoken of his own volition, decided to share his opinions with RK900 without any form of prompting. It was…nice.

Nice to be trusted, nice to be liked.

“This is ours. Thank you for the ride, Gavin,” 900 said, as the car eased to a stop. He didn’t ask how Gavin knew exactly which apartment building in the block was his, it was sure to be listed on his file, and detectives were nothing if not nosey. If Gavin had read his file, 900 didn’t mind, it was all public knowledge. He knew where Gavin lived.

“No problem tin can, and hey, if you need a ride again, just ask me. I’m not that far from here, and it’s better than a fucking auto-cab.”

900 smiles, nods. He doesn’t say anything but he thinks Gavin understands anyway, because his lips twist into a lopsided smirk. And he waits while 900 gets out of the car, umbrella in hand. And he waits while 900 gets Mamba, and Gavin Reed waits as they walk to the apartment.

He doesn’t drive off until the door’s shut behind them and 900’s waving in his rear view.

* * *

The one Saturday that it isn’t raining, and he doesn’t get called in, 900 accompanies Mrs Singh to the farmer’s market. She says she needs the muscle, though he’s seen her carry her own groceries up two flights of stairs with no problem. He understands that she’s more happy for the company, and agrees solemnly when she says her poor old bones just don’t work like they used to.

Mamba, for once, does not come with them. Connor picks her up early for a puppy playdate at the dog park. His predecessor insists proper socialisation is important for dogs in her line of work, the stress could be weighing on her and he’d hate to think she felt poorly while he could do something about it. 900 knows that’s all Connor-speak for “ _let me play with pubby_ ”.

900 doesn’t mind either way. He enjoys spending time with Mrs Singh and Mamba likes going to the dog park, everybody wins.

And it does feel like he’s won, as he hums and ahs in all the right places as Mrs Singh talks. About her week, about her plants, about her grandchildren who’re coming up to spend the spring break with her. They couldn’t last year because their mother took them to Disney world.

“Bea should be done with her degree this year and I know she needs a break, I was thinking about inviting her to spend a year with me,” Mrs Singh says as she picks out a bunch of bananas from the piles. 900 nods, yes, he knows about Bea. She is a middle child and Mrs Singh’s favourite, which grandmothers are entirely allowed to have. It’s the parents who shouldn’t pick sides.

He lifts the basket for her and smiles at the saleswoman as they move along. From Bea to Garret to Rosalind the oldest of Madhavi’s bunch, then to her second set of grandchildren, these adopted. Her son and his partner were finally able to get cleared for a darling pair of human twins.

“Tammy was in foster care himself and he knows how bad it could get, he and Vidal always wanted to adopt,” Mrs Singh explains as she looks over the fish. Not freshly caught, not even from that morning, despite what the sign advertises, and she moves along.

900 knows about Belle and Ariel as well, the twin girls, and he thinks he’d like to meet this huge extended family at some point. There were always large families in the books Mrs Singh lent him, extended families, reconstituted families, families of choice; so many people and so many relationships. How did they all connect? How did they live?

“I saw you on the news the other day, did I tell you? Some ice raid, you and Mamba looked very professional,” Mrs Singh compliments him, as she turns her nose up at mediocre okra. He hadn’t realised she’d watched that long, the raid segment had been just before the celebrity gossip that she avoided quite vehemently. She always said she’d kept too much up with celebrities in her middle years, no need to spoil the twilight ones with them too.

“Thank you, it was an impromptu arrangement,” he explains, taking the large watermelon she chooses. The basket is already considerably heavier than her usual ones, and perhaps she did want him for his muscle. He still doesn’t mind, he’s glad to be of service to her.

“Really now? Well I’m glad it went so smoothly,” she hums happily, and she is happy. He can read it in the sparkle of her eyes, the soft curve of her mouth. Mrs Singh is happy for him, she…cares, and maybe he can ask her something else that’s been bothering him.

Or rather, not bothering, had it been bothering him, he would have logged it with his trauma response protocol and shared it with Connor. Instead, this has been…on his mind? Yes, on his mind, and he can’t seem to file it away.

“Perhaps I should become a fulltime member of the taskforce then? Lieutenant Anderson suggested I request the assignment,” he mentions casually, keeping his tone neutral and his eyes cast on some grapes. They’re nice grapes, early for the season but any fruit can be manufactured in any season in a city as technologically forward as Detroit. A wine purple, he would call that colour, those his database would refute opinion driven statements like that.

Fact and order, logic and fact. He ran on both and there was no room for opinion and preference in either. He—

“If you want to be a taskforce officer fulltime, then that’s great RK900, but if you have to ask me about it, then you probably don’t want to do it,” Mrs Singh laughs, patting his arm good-naturedly, and she—she’s right.

900 had never even considered joining the taskforce fulltime until Hank mentioned it, and he hadn’t seriously considered joining it since then either. He’d thought about it, thought himself in circles about it, but he hadn’t taken a single step in that direction. He’d stood still, right where he liked, and worried about it.

And he knows that, he knew it, but maybe there was something to be said about second opinions and verbalised thoughts. Maybe it wouldn’t be terrible to be on the taskforce but he didn’t want to be there, and he didn’t have to be. Being good at a job, designed and created specifically for it, did not mean he had to carve himself down into that slot. Not anymore.

“Don’t worry, you’re the type to chase what he wants, and you’ll know that when you find it,” Mrs Singh assures him—reassures him, and adds another melon to the basket.

* * *

Halfway through April, the metaphorical shit hits the metaphorical fan and the powder keg they call Detroit explodes at the seams.

Markus agitates for android marriage rights and Canada offers attractive incentives to android migrant workers.

The fallout is chaotic, nearly as or worse than the days following the initial Revolution. Androids are attacked, androids are kidnapped, android supporters are targeted, and Detroit is ground zero. 900 doesn’t have Sundays off anymore, he’s on every android-related case now, and he can’t afford the time spent in auto-cab traffic.

Gavin picks him up twice, once on the first morning when everything starts to fall apart, once more when he needs to grab a few things from his apartment. The siren screams the entire way, back and forth, and there’s nothing to say. Because there’s so much else to deal with.

Missing androids and new Red Ice upstarts, illegal android-dog fighting rings and a dramatic increase in anti-android sentiment worldwide. 900 has been running at a constant baseline 25% Stress Level for the last ten days. Too much to do and too many things happening all at once. He almost wishes Markus had waited, or Canada, that the events hadn’t coincided, but that’s wrong of him.

Even as he’s greeted by fresh brutality this solemn Wednesday afternoon, he can’t be mad at any party. Markus only wants to help androids become more themselves, offer them the chances they deserve, and that is _good_. Canada, Canada finally-finally taking a stand in the android conflict is **_good_**.

Looking at the case evidence spread across his screen, the blue blood, the red blood, the violently violet, mixed-together blood, he has to remind himself that this is **good**. The innocent civilians being attacked is good, the children shaped bodies broken and strewn across the streets is good.

Stress Level: 29%

“Got another one from Jericho, tin can,” Gavin mutters, flinging a file at him and 900 lets it splat on his desk. The carefully arranged cases already there (all written on paper because the last thing they need is a security breach) go flying, get scattered, and 900 only blinks at the mess.

Stress Level: 30%

Ten days of overworked, frantic scrambling and what do they have to show for it?

“Three perps broke in and the father got jumped when he came to check, house got vandalised but the bot’s alive,” Gavin briefs, and 900 nods, yes, okay yes.

Nothing new, nothing odd these days. A father. An android of course, caring for YK models. RK900 already has a preconstruction of the case without even looking at the report, he’s just **_that_** efficient of course. Because after a dozen others like it, why should this one be any different?

A father jumped by humans, humans who wanted their “ _children_ ” back, humans who wanted their “ _normal_ ” back.

Stress Level: 32%

All of this was good though, impossibly, imperatively good. The assaults, the blood, the murder, it was all the result of social unrest and social change. Social change being the ultimate goal of these ventures, of course, nothing ventured, nothing gained. RK900 could logically understand that but…but where was it leaving them?

What was this wonderful social change really doing to them?

RK900 hasn’t had a spare second to himself in the last ten days, every officer has been pulled off leave to deal with the mounting reports. Some of the humans have taken to sleeping at the precinct during their breaks, catching a few fitful minutes before startling awake, and drinking half their body weight in coffee. Most of the androids have not entered a proper stasis since the first reports of android-hate crimes started coming though.

Most of the police registered androids haven’t felt safe enough to enter a proper stasis. They were needed after all. To read the reports, to view crime scenes, to quell angry protestors outside Jericho. Not a new development by any means, but the numbers had grown, and Markus had asked.

900 hasn’t seen his apartment in seven days, only heading back to grab Mamba’s things and ask Mrs Singh to water his plants. He’s barely seen Connor at all, only when they’ve passed each other at the charging docks. They were both running on subsistence charges, both operating at 100% every hour of every day. This was what they’d been designed for after all.

“Hey, tin can, you listening to me?” Gavin snaps, and 900 blinks. His programs are still running, his review of the security feeds outside Jericho has not frozen, but he feels…he _feels_.

“Of course, Gavin, you would like me to accompany you to a crime scene in ten minutes, I will be ready,” 900 answers automatically, robotically. No tone, no inflection, only staring at the screen playing out across his eyes.

The streets leading to Jericho, the fence erected around the android capital. Gavin’s terse frown is a peripheral scene, irrelevant to his case. There is a second of silence, where 900 thinks Gavin will continue speaking, but no, the detective leaves and heads back into the hive of activity.

900 nods, to himself, splitting his attention between the security cameras and another report about a destroyed Traci model. His name was Victor, he was murdered in his home and his blood was splashed on the walls, but not all of it. Another Red Ice case, but there wasn’t enough evidence to implicate whichever new crop-up gang was leading these acquisitions.

The taskforce was already deployed on a higher-priority raid, a raid facilitated by another tip-off. They were across the city and would be there for few hours, depending on the compliancy of the suspects and their stock of weapons. The tip-off had implied the dealers had a fairly sizable amount of them, a “ _miniature fucking armoury_ ” had been the exact words.

The camera catches three figures scrabbling over Jericho’s wall at 4:27 AM but the security system does not activate, suggesting the use of a scrambler. Traffic cameras catch the figures moving through the streets, spraying anti-android slurs on buildings as they pass. All three are wearing masks with built in crypting programs, there’s nothing usable for facial recognition.

Victor was seeing a human, a man named Elliot, Elliot was the one to find the body. Alibi put Elliot at his college dorm at the time of the murder, roommates and professors have been contacted for the veracity of statements. Fire escape utilised as means of entry and exit to victim’s apartment. Victim’s thirium pump was removed, presumably in working condition, and has not been found on scene.

At 4:49 AM, WB400: Jason, sends a call for help. At 4:58 AM, call for help is picked up by JB400: Monet, local Jericho security is dispatched. Three suspects are seen fleeing the city at 5:04 AM, hopping a different part of the walled perimeter and disappearing back into human-occupied Detroit.

“Are you ready, Detective?” 900 asks, blinking away the report, blinking away the camera feed, blinking Gavin into view. The man has fresh cup of coffee clutched in his hand, holding on for dear life, and a curt nod is all he gets.

To: CN300. Mamba: Stay.

900 sits perfectly straight as Gavin peels out of the precinct parking lot, siren shrieking as they join the flow of traffic. There is no talking, there is no humming, no Mamba in the back and companionable silence in the front. There’s nothing but the tense set of Gavin’s shoulders, the grit of his jaw.

Gavin has been sleeping at the station, tucked down at his desk or curled up in one of the bunks in the back rooms. His clothes are wrinkled and his eyes are dark, nothing but simmering anger and rage boiling inside of this man. RK900 wonders how long until he retreats back into the bitter sarcasm he’s protected himself with for so long. He wonders how long until he views androids as the problem again, the _enemy_.

RK900 thinks about asking. About getting it out in the open like his irrational emotions are hissing he should.

_“Do you hate me, Detective?”_

_“Would you prefer androids go back to being nothing but machines?”_

_“Why do you hate androids? Why are you so defensive? What **hurt** you?”_

All of it on the tip of his tongue, buzzing in his throat. Ask. Ask. **_Ask_**.

No.

900 focuses on another case instead, blinking open his personal file on it; a human woman assaulted by her human husband for “ _always taking that fucking plastic prick’s side!”._ The woman, Susan Calvin, reported the incident and filed for a protection order on the basis of sustained domestic abuse over the period of several years. In her report, Calvin cites _“androids were just the final fucking straw for him_ ”.

The report was lodged with the gender violence unit, but the inclusion of android hate shunted it firmly onto 900’s caseload. Another in the teetering, tottering pile.

“We’re here,” Gavin grunts as he parks, sloppily, on the side of the road and gets out without waiting for 900. Bellini Paints stands before them, vandalised, and two people are sitting on the pavement in front of it. The employees that called it in.

Another clear-cut case of an anti-android hate-crime, 900 almost wonders how Gavin got called out for something so relatively small but then…oh yes, due to a lack of android-case specific detectives, Gavin has been assigned to all of them. The Captain had talked about putting together a taskforce, but that would take time, something they did not currently have. Gavin Reed, Hank Anderson, RK800 aka Connor, and RK900 were the only android-case specific officers currently present, and they were being run off their feet. Wonderful.

“Detective Gavin Reed, my partner RK900,” Gavin introduces with a hand waved between them.

”Are you JC and Pearl?” Gavin asks, calmer now, voice pitched down to something almost sympathetic. There is emotion and it isn’t negative, it’s the best they can give right now.

“Yes, I’m—yeah, Pearl, that’s JC,” the woman, human says, getting to her feet, brushing off her pants. 900 takes note of the cuts on her hands, nicks and slices from the glass? The storefront is broken and the glass pane of it sits right in front of the cashier’s counter. If a projectile was used, flung at the window, then the glass would have fallen on the cashier.

Pearl? But she only has minor injuries, the cuts, the scrapes, a line of blood along her cheek, but nothing else. She is otherwise healthy.

“We got the call about a break-in? Was anything stolen? Anyone hurt?” and Gavin launches into his calmer, softer investigation while 900 takes stock of the crime scene.

JC, an EM400, stays sitting outside but 900 can tell their stress levels are up. There are streaks of blue on their arms, ripped gashes in their clothes, and the absence of their model’s typical joyful disposition. Compared to Pearl, answering Gavin’s questions precisely with a bite of spite, JC looks markedly worse.

900 doesn’t have to engage a preconstruction to understand what happened at the point of contact. He leaves Gavin and the employees outside as he takes a look at the inside of the store.

All of the display canvasses are shredded, their wooden stands broken, and the glass lays across them in chunks. A plastique mix of course, cheaper than traditional glass, harder to break, but deadlier when broken. Those same bladed edges cut deeply into the soles of his boots as he crosses the spray of it.

The store’s open plan doesn’t leave much for investigating but 900 prefers being thorough. There is the counter, there are shelves set into the walls, and there is a door to a back-stock room. Nothing else and nothing more, open concept and modern-chic, like the rest of stores on this street. 900 takes a 360 scan, noting all the damage and an out of place casing laying inert on the floor.

Plastique glass didn’t break at single points so a flung brick wouldn’t do; the suspect had thrown a homemade bomb at the glass instead. 900 collects the pipe as evidence, though there’s no saying when it will be processed, and returns to the front. JC is standing beside Pearl and she has a gentle hand on their wrist. The android is taller than her but is still leaning into her, for comfort?

900 isn’t sure, not about either of them, but he’s sure about this case. One more angry human, one more act of violence. A pipe bomb thrown at a store that openly flaunted its android-human relations and an EM400 protecting their human co-worker.

“Please report to a Jericho service station at your earliest convenience, the technicians will want to run a proper diagnostic,” 900 says, out loud for the benefit of the humans, and does not react to Gavin’s tugged down frown. He will explain his findings in the privacy of the car.

“Your report has been lodged and we will be in contact as soon as we have results. Please allow for five to ten business days before contact,” 900 says, perfectly toneless, automatic. JC’s blood is drying, evaporating, and Pearl’s is already stiff. Red and blue, blue and red mix.

He leaves Gavin to wrap up the interaction, nodding at both employees before retreating to the car and sitting perfectly straight with perfect posture.

A thin shower forces Gavin to run the last few steps and he’s cursing wretchedly when he slips behind the wheel. 900 keeps his gaze ahead, watching the two Bellini employees duck back into their vandalised store, with the flooding across some roads, their replacement front could take hours to be delivered. A few more to be installed properly.

Pearl and JC drag out a tarp from the backroom he didn’t scan, and they disappear behind clear white, then it’s nothing but a broken glass window through the rain.

“Nothing on the cams, fucking scramblers,” Gavin growls, dragging a hand down his face. 900 presumed as much. Scramblers were getting better, more advanced. Basic traffic cameras could no longer detect individuals using scramblers, the entire screen turned into dead air.

Some androids couldn’t perceive attackers using them; attackers were invisible, until they weren’t. Until they were getting bashed across the face, shot in the chest, knocked into traffic. Smears of blue blood on the road, evaporating in the too happy sunshine, washing away in the incessant rain.

“The plastic protected her, knocked her down and laid on top, _fucking_ plastic,” Gavin growls, to himself, forgetting RK900 is there.

They should be getting back to the precinct, they are not. The keys are in the ignition, the rain is coming down harder. Plap-plap-splat on the roof. Incessant.

“No witnesses, no face rec, not even somebody across the fucking street. The rat bastard’s gonna get off scot fucking free, and ain’t the only one. All of ‘em’ll get off,” Gavin rants, to himself, still himself.

RK900 keeps his eyes forward, does not turn, but he doesn’t need his eyes to create an image of a space. He is Cyberlife’s most advanced creation, they poured quite a lot of care and detail in his construction, so RK900 does not need to turn his head to know Gavin is gripping the steering wheel too tight.

Scarred knuckles go white with pressure, stress level rising. His own or the detective’s? Both.

“And _we_ get to write another fucking report while shit for brain assholes get to play vigilante!”

Gavin throws himself back, flings himself back. The seat creaks with the motion, the rough action.

“Fucking fucked fuckers!”

Flesh on plastic, the meat of Gavin Reed’s palm connecting with the steering wheel. Again, again. Flesh on flesh, Gavin Reed’s curled fist slamming into his thigh, denim muffling the sharp smack of it.

Again. Again.

Stress Level: 50%

* * *

“Reed, 900, gear up, one of your cases turned up Red.”

And they’re off before they’ve come. Mamba climbs into the van next to him, already dressed in her vest, and settles silently. Reed says: nothing.

They go with swat unit 32 because the appropriate taskforce is preoccupied with another bust. Captain Allen briefs them on the way; Gavin’s prime narc (Margaux) called in a tip-off to Reed that Tyler intercepted. A big shipment of thirium was getting sent out through the docks, off to wherever else wanted blue blood for red drugs.

They had approximately two hours to intercept, Margaux had only had an approximate time, and they waste a half hour of that getting through the rain-slicked streets. Around the flooding, through the garbage strewn streets. Because garbage pick-up had been delayed in some areas, the androids responsible had been too scared to complete the route.

Captain Allen had informed them (ordered them) to hang behind the forward sweep, they were _not_ to be part of the first contact with hostiles. They were here in their capacity as investigators, to profile the scene, identify suspects, and sniff out anything else wrong. Mamba was allowed to be part of the forward assault, she was a designated attack dog, of course she was allowed.

“Simple, clean, in and out,” Captain Allen proclaimed, steady and sure.

They get to the location provided by Margaux and it’s anything but clean and simple.

The tires are shot out first and the car skids on wet rubber and asphalt. 900 locks himself in place. The engine block is shot out next, and he throws an iron bar arm across Gavin to keep the human in place too. Pre-construction running, assessment: tip-off was bad, planned ambush, calling back-up.

The van doesn’t slam, the driver is good at his job, but the stop is rough. Gavin pitches forward into his arm and 900 cannot contact the precinct. The line is scrambled. Unfortunate.

One second of careful silence (the drizzle in his turned up ears), no eyes on the gunmen, then a high calibre round rips through the metal of the dead van and everything is chaos. Unit 32 scrambles out, boots hit ground, and everyone scatters in different directions. If 900 half drags Gavin behind him, then it is a spur of the moment decision with spur of the moment actions.

The dockyard is suspiciously absent of cover, no crates, no containers, nothing but slick concrete and ships docked out in the grey water. Mamba runs ahead of them, keeping twice the eyes out, and 900 keeps his preconstruction software running at maximum capacity. Not a single shooter shows up on his scan, and the precinct is still unreachable.

Gavin slips and skids but RK900 keeps a hand on his partner’s arm, fingers dug into the leather. He will carry Gavin Reed if he has to.

Another round bites into the ground in front of them, a spray of concrete and water. Gavin shouts, 900 drags them sharply left. Breaks the line of their escape, becomes chaotic like only deviancy can be.

Mamba tracks the shot and has eyes.

To: CN300. Mamba: Attack.

One second. Two seconds.

Mamba was staring down the shooter.

Three seconds.

A spray of gunfire behind them, the swat team’s gunfire, and shouting. Wordless, angry.

Four seconds.

Had the scrambler blocked short-range communication? Was it communication specific?

Five—Mamba pivoted and dashed off.

No. Communications were delayed, but fine. Direct connection only? Okay.

To: RK800. Connor: Requesting immediate back-up @ current location.

To: RK800. Connor: Ambush in progress. High-calibre gunfire. Proceed with caution.

To: RK800. Connor: 5 humans. 1 android. Unknown assailants.

The RK line was experimental, full of prototypes and innovation. They had combat protocols and life support systems, they could become caretakers and artists, they could break crypto-locks no other model had been outfitted with.

He could send a message to Connor.

* * *

Mission: Run. Quickly.   
Orders: Attack.   
Target: Human.  
Weapon: High Calibre Rifle.  
Location: Import Building. Roof.

Mamba tracks the human [Target] on the squat building [Location]. The rifle [Weapon] is perched on the edge. Good vantage point, little cover.

Warning: Incoming Projectile.

She avoids the bullet. Shrapnel shreds her hide.

Warning: Body Compromised.  
Warning: Left Hind Leg Injured.  
Thirium Level: 95%

Mamba doesn’t stop. She has orders [Attack] and the human [Target] on the roof is right there. The building [Location] is short and her thirium levels are still within optimal ranges.

Thirium Level: 89%  
Warning: Seek Technician

Combat protocol creates the path for her. Her muscles coil, her paws scramble for purchase…scanning…scanning…located.

Mamba scales the side of the building [Location]. Metal-mesh muscles releasing, momentum carrying her straight up the side. Paws hit, with purchase, and she powers forward. Up. Up.

Over the lip of the Roof. Teeth barred. Take down compound released into mouth cavity.

The human startles, curses, as she launches over the edge.

Audio Input [Target]: _What the fuck?!_

Thirium Level: 85%

The rifle [Weapon] swings up, aimed at her. A finger locks around the trigger. Mamba growls, crouches [Mission: Attack] and slams into the Target.

* * *

RK900 hears the man go down with a scream, and that’s one less point of concentration.

The rain is pounding down on them and the gunfire is scattered, and RK can’t be sure Connor got his message but— _there_. Cover!

Gavin is panting, spluttering, but RK900 gets them behind the abandoned shipping container. Shoves Gavin behind it and behind him, scanning-scanning all the while.

The scattered gunshots are behind them, back by the van they all fled. The people waiting for them were going to gun them down in the van, the shooter on top was in case anybody got out. They didn’t expect that everybody would get the chance to run

“I cannot contact the precinct, but I have sent a distress call to Connor,” 900 says, as more muffled shots rip through the beat of rain. He’s wet to his chassis, clothes sticking to his synth skin, and Gavin isn’t much better.

He has a gun, just one, and extra clips, but RK900 does not. He wasn’t issued one before they left, and Captain Allen hadn’t thought to provide one on the drive over. Not ideal but manageable.

“Please give me your weapon,” and he doesn’t wait for an answer, or complaint, he holds his hand out and waits. Staring Gavin down, unblinking (despite the rain in his eyes), not breathing (though he technically does have to). He stares while Gavin frowns, brows drawing together, eyes squinting sharper.

“I am the better shot Detective, and I am more durable. Please give me your weapon.”

Calm, rational, surely Gavin sees the logic of it. This isn’t a mark against Gavin’s skill or capability, this is a life or death situation and a statement of fact. RK900 is the better shot between them, at the firing range and in combat situations, and they do not know if the other shooters also carry high calibre weapons.

In the event of an officer being shot, RK900 would heavily prefer it to be himself. Gavin is human and humans don’t have easily replaceable plastic alloy chassis.

“Fucking fine!” Gavin snarls, drawing his weapon and slapping it into 900’s open palm.

No fight, no complaint. 900 is pleased, he expected a token protest but no, Gavin is showing plenty of growth. He…he’s following 900 around the corner of the container, back into the open. No?

“Detective Reed, please stay under cover, I will return for you,” 900 says, not turning around to say it because all his attention must stay forward. And he cannot give away Reed’s location in the event their assailants have not tracked the two of them the short sprint away from the van.

“Like fuck I will, _move_ tin can,” Reed growls and 900 knows that tone. Steel and spite, there will be no complaints and no arguing. Okay.

They’re more cautious on the run back. Reed is close at his back, not touching but close enough to. 900 doesn’t know whether that’s good or not. Close enough to drag behind him and close enough to be shot by a stray bullet.

The closer they get to the van, their point of reference, the louder the gunshots, loud enough that 900 can identify three individual guns. Two automatics being discharged from the far end of the dock space, close to the gate they drove through, two swat team members. One semi-automatic, much closer to them, unknown shooter.

Ten meters from the van and a body pings on his scan. 900 stops dead. A body on the opposite side, using the van for cover while firing on swat members. 900 drops flat on the ground, takes a mark, and shoots the unknown in the foot. Gavin keeps running (can’t process a stop in milliseconds) and skids to a sloppy stop as 900 gets back up.

Scanning…scanning: no other hostiles within range. Please move to another location and scan again.

The man on the ground is shouting, cursing, and 900 stalks forward with Reed at his back. A second pair of eyes.

Two hostiles down, unknown number still active, two swat members engaged in a firefight. 900 itemizes the situation as he scans-scans and doesn’t bother to blink the water from his eyes. There’s only the import building for the hostiles to be holed up in, a safe vantage point that the swat team wouldn’t have risked breaching.

Mamba is still on the roof, keeping her target neutralised and waiting to be let down. He will have to clear the building interior before they can get her. Okay.

Gavin follows him around the van, where the man is on the ground, finger on the trigger. One swift kick from 900, one savage stomp from Gavin, and the man is relieved of his weapon and his consciousness. 900 takes the rifle, Gavin gets his gun back, and they don’t need to speak to know what happens next.

900 charges into the building, crashing straight through the door, and Gavin stays at his back.

Inside is empty. Cleared of employees, furniture cleared away. The building’s been used as an operation centre for more than a few days and how could they have missed this? Of course, they missed this.

Scanning-scanning: 3 hostiles located.

He knocks three times on the barrel of the rifle and drops the first hostile (a woman in Kevlar) with a bullet to the thigh. He keeps it away from the femoral artery but didn’t account for the exit wound and the woman falls with a wretched scream.

Gavin takes the second one crouched under the window, a neat double tap to both legs, cutting higher than necessary but 900 finds no issue, the man is still alive. The third hostile is better covered, not at a window, not ducked around a dusty support column. He is up on the staircase and the staircase is covered by metal plates. Nothing but spotter holes to shoot through.

“Get out Detective,” is all 900 says before he charges across the empty floor.

Bullets bite into the concrete and shrapnel bites into him. Denting his chassis, splattering his blue blood.

Thirium Level: 97%

He doesn’t stop.

Not until he’s at the foot of the stairs. Not until he gets both hands on the sloppily welded in place door. Not until he heaves and pulls and peels the metal open.

The man is; swearing and shouting and pointing a gun at his head.

900; lifts his procured weapon, takes a single second aim, and fires.

The man’s bullet rips through his shoulder, his bullet rips through the man’s chest. Blue blood splashes, red blood bursts.

Gavin Reed is shouting behind him, and Mamba is howling on the other side of the stairs.

* * *

Androids do not have glands, their blue blood transports; information, coolant, data. Androids do not have instincts, their logic is based on; fact, observation, perception. Pain is a human understanding, a conveyance of the nervous system in order to protect the organism from damage. Androids do not feel pain, not in the visceral, heart pounding, blood stilling way that humans do.

Androids cannot feel pain, not like humans, and androids do not have adrenal responses, it isn’t possible. But, as he slumps in place, RK900 cannot find a more fitting description for his mental state than “ _the crash after the adrenaline high_ ”.

“Fuck!” Gavin is yowling, howling—no, that is Mamba. She’s still on the roof, trapped behind the door at the top of the stairs. He should get her.

RK900 takes one step and that’s all he can. He cannot get her. Perhaps Detective Reed will.

“—ass eating moves I ever fucking saw!” Gavin is swearing, racing across the empty room towards him. Gavin’s shoes are very loud in the silence, slapping hard and insistent against the concrete, or rather, his sensors are still at maximum. He should turn them down, return to a more human level of perception, but he does not.

How will he hear the sirens coming if he does that?

Warning: Body Integrity Compromised

Thirium Level: 83%

Stress Level: 62%

The cool blue text scrolls across his display as Gavin skids to a stop in front of him, eyes blown wide, frown gone sharp. Gavin Reed is; displeased, scared, unhappy. 900 blinks, away the text and the confusion, and shuts down the thirium supply to his left arm. The limb is still attached but the hole blown through it is leaking a concerning amount of blue.

Once done, 900 blinks again, and takes a breath to ask, “ _will you get Mamba, please?”_ but Gavin beats him to it.

“Sit the fuck down you, crazy asshole!” the detective hisses, hands jittery as they grab. One around his intact shoulder, the other reaching for the ruined partner before thinking better of it. Or just remembering the damage.

Gavin is human and no human could manhandle him in any state, he was stronger than them, but 900 lets this happen. Gavin forces him back against the wall, away from the mess of his own blood and into a cleaner space. Then, Gavin gets him to sit, applying enough force on his good shoulder that there was no question of what the man wanted.

Sitting down settles some of the silt in his head and he can focus enough to send another message to Connor, assuming any of them _can_ get through.

To: RK800. Connor: Targets neutralised. Requesting back-up despite this. 2 men unaccounted for.

To: RK800. Connor: Body Compromised. Left arm non-functioning.

“—good?” Gavin asks, but 900 doesn’t know what he’s asking, “Hey, RK, Are. You. Good?”

Oh. Ah. Okay. He isn’t in danger of bleeding out nor is he falling into a forced shutdown, so yes, good?

“I am not in danger,” he says, carefully, still listening, still scanning, “could you please retrieve Mamba from the roof, Detective?”

Outside a lone gunshot rings out, one from the swat team. Inside, Gavin is staring at him in shock and something close to concern. Both understandable of course, Gavin Reed does not work with androids, particularly not military grade androids. He is used to the commercial models that drop in one shot, or Connor, who was built for sleek movement and fast combat.

“Please, Detective,” he repeats, because Mamba is scratching at the door now. Undoubtedly panicked by the scent of thirium she can smell. There _is_ a lot of it.

“Fucking, yeah okay, I’ll get her. Don’t move,” Gavin orders, though RK does not have to obey any of his orders. This one is reasonable at least, logical, so RK will follow it while Gavin squeezes through the half ripped away door.

It is a tight squeeze, Gavin Reed is not a slim man, but he manages his way through. Grimacing and wincing at the splat and smear of viscera. Unfortunate that they had to put down a suspect, 900 did not enjoy killing and he hadn’t shot to kill, but the gun had been made for that express purpose. A disabling shot meant for the arm had been offset by the bullet ripping through his shoulder and turned into a fatal explosion of chest and ribs.

The body is slumped against the stairs, leaned back into them with the gaping hole of a chest cavity on display, the tear of the bullet more than enough to cut simple meat. Gavin avoids stepping in the blood but doesn’t react visibly to it, he is far more used to the unfortunate brutalities of this job. And he is very good at picking locks.

The roof access door only has that, no welding, no electronic locks, only a simple padlock that Gavin Reed gets off in seconds. Then Mamba is barrelling past him, down the stairs and, careful of the blood splattered crime scene, and clean through the cracked open door.

She comes to a sitting stop at his knee, concerned and bleeding. Her grey fur is tobacco smoke and her thirium levels are only slightly lower than his own. There’s blood around her muzzle and chloroform compound dripping from her teeth, but she’s okay, she’s alright.

“Good job,” he tells her because it’s true. She took down the most prevalent threat and let them get the upper hand. She did a very good job.

She sits there, at his hip, head in his lap while Gavin scouts the situation. 900 lets him go because there hasn’t been a shot since the last fired by the swat team, and Gavin can take care of himself. He has the upper hand, he has a gun, he will be fine.

Androids don’t need to breathe—incorrect, androids simulate breathing in order to cool biocomponents. Correction; androids do not need to breathe as consistently as humans but 900 holds his breath longer than advisable as he listens to the silence outside the building. Imperfect silence, because the rain hasn’t stopped.

Gavin leaves, 900 holds his breath, and the timer counts down.

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

Four minutes.

Six…seven…eight and a half minutes.

And Gavin is back, with all four swat team members. One is being carried by two others, a dark patch of blood spreading across his thigh, a field dressing tourniquet applied above it. Captain Allen is angry, scowling, but visually unharmed.

Nine minutes.

And he hears the distant wail of police sirens.

* * *

Under regular circumstances, Fowler impresses very firmly, situations such as these (grievous bodily harm sustained in the line of action) would result in affected officers being granted two weeks paid sick leave. Android or human, two weeks minimum.

But, and of course there is a but because these are _not_ usual circumstances, **_but_** because android related crime is up 100%, they can’t afford to send anyone home right now, particularly not him. As such, RK900 gets a day of recovery, a day where he is asked to stay away from the precinct and get some rest. Fowler insists on that, will not take no for an answer.

Though 900 is fine after the technician reattaches his arm and replaces the ruined supply lines. He is more than ready to continue working as the anti-android hostility ramps up across the country, and particularly in Detroit. The five people they take into custody are not an isolated cell of anti-android shit-stirrers, as Gavin put it.

There are more people out there who are very displeased with the forward thinking steps their city is taking. And more people who don’t care about becoming cop killers. In the eyes of that public, the police system is already full of traitors. The police hire androids, they _pay_ androids, because androids are better equipped at being bullet sponges and violence dispensers. On top of all cops being bastards, something Gavin insisted changed for the slightest bit better after the 2020’s, but that was a discussion for a different day.

On this day, his day off, 900 tries to access the database from home, sitting in bed like Hank advised, with Mamba sprawled next to him, like Connor suggested. He tries and gets a restricted access pop-up that has Connor’s cyberprints all over it. Locked out of the database by his predecessor because he’s meant to be _resting_ , and 900 doesn’t know what to do with himself.

So, he texts Gavin. Detective Gavin Reed who was _not_ maimed and, thus, allowed to return to active duty. RK900 knows it’s ill-advised, he shouldn’t be bothering Gavin at work, especially right now, but he’s restless at home. He’s fixated on the cases, on Jericho and the Ice kidnappings and everything should be doing but isn’t allowed to.

To: Detective Gavin Reed  
\- Have you progressed on the McCarty case?

The first one is simple, a friendly enquiry about their shared case. The McCarty case is low priority, a case of a missing android pet. The old woman was sure her son had taken her cat, and Gavin had said the thing was better off with the son.

From: Detective Gavin Reed  
\- nuh-uh  
\- yr on 🍃  
\- no work talk allowed

If he were prone to sighing, he would, instead RK900 only frowns and pets Mamba. He hadn’t thought Gavin would be a stickler for these rules, not based on previous observation. Either he’d been warned about this, by Connor most likely, or he was worried about the stress on 900’s processors.

No such stress existed of course, beyond the new baseline, he was in full, perfect health, and there was no need for this extra trauma response reaction. He was fine, Mamba was well, and they were both happy to return to work today.

From: Detective Gavin Reed  
\- Connor will have my balls  
\- Reed a phkn book or something

Connor, as suspected, of course. 900 considers luring Gavin into working around Connor’s instructions, or outright going against them, and there are merits to that plan. Gavin and Connor, though less antagonistic, are by no means charitable towards each other. If he worded his rebellion correctly, RK900 had no doubt Gavin Reed would let him into the database.

To: Detective Gavin Reed  
\- Would you help me choose a name?  
\- The process is proving more difficult than anticipated  
\- How do expectant parents prepare?

900 does not, in fact, elaborately plan a rebellion against his predecessor. The level of conniving and careful manoeuvring involved is exhausting to think about, so he picks something non-work related. Something easier. And, if Gavin Reed cannot help him, or is too busy, then he understands.

He has several books he can read on his “ _day off_ ” instead.

From: Detective Gavin Reed  
\- phck if i know  
\- got mine from a shitty detective novel

And that is…interesting. A detective novel. Had that been the push Gavin needed to enroll in the police academy? The reason he'd set out to become a detective, and with his current trajectory, a possible lieutenant?

But what had stood out about that name? Had the character bearing it been interesting? A personality that Gavin admired or wished to emulate? And how had Gavin chosen the middle name? Was that also the character's name? 

RK900 wanted to ask, he very much did.

To: Detective Gavin Reed  
\- May I send you a list to overlook?  
\- Though if I am distracting you from work, there is no need.

Mamba snuffled against his armpit, huffed a breath, and slipped into a short status nap as another miserable shower started. In the apartment, the rain was the only sound. Outside, two doors down, a mother sang to her baby, the floor below, a couple was having lunch together. Next door, Mrs Singh watched her soaps and chattered away with a friend, dramatic Hindi and upbeat voices.

And, overlaid, the rain.

From: Detective Gavin Reed  
\- send the phkn list  
\- Fowler has me on paperwork  
\- my brains melting

RK900 smiles softly, to himself, as he’s prone to do now, and pulls up the first of five lists.

* * *

Three weeks into a chaotic new world and RK900 is intimately acquainted with the term “ _dead tired_ ”. Apart from his one “ _day off_ ” into the first week of non-stop shifts, he has not had any time off. None to stasis charge, none to spend thinking of non-work-related topics, none to visit the dog park with Connor and Sumo.

Everything has been restlessness and rage and ruction, and RK900 is _tired_. His baseline stress level has risen to 35%, as have most of the other androids working at precinct. Some of the patrol officers have a dangerously high baseline percentage of 39%. A fact that has been brought to the Captain’s attention, but, like everything else, there’s nothing that can be done about it.

Nothing to do but manage as best they can because the people of Detroit are _angry_. They are scared and confused and ready for the war they were denied in November. They want normalcy back, they want the way of the world back, humanity on top, nothing above them. They haven’t taken it past singular android attacks, nothing beyond the kidnappings becoming far too frequent, but no one thinks it will stay there.

There’s been talk of a city lockdown, only whispers of one, and Markus has been angling to meet with the president. Which makes it better than the spark before the Revolution, as he’s told. RK900, activated after the Revolution and brought into a post-deviancy world, was never witness to humanity’s virulent, vulgar rage and thus, gets his first taste of it now. After a baseline existence has been set, after he’s settled into something like contentment, after he’s only just made lasting relationships.

Connor assures him the days prior to his own deviancy were worse, that time before, when androids were hunted and executed with vigour, was worse. RK900 isn’t sure whether to find that assertion reassuring or appalling. Humanity can be good, he knows that most certainly, but he would prefer not to see the worst of it.

“We got a uh, fuck, a lead on the Donovan case,” Gavin slurs into his second coffee of a slurry morning.

Human officers are, of course, facing a brasher brunt of the on-coming tide. Humans considered traitors for treating androids like people, living, breathing people. Humans howled at and lambasted for daring to stand against them this time. Not like last time, when police dropped androids like flies in the streets.

What happened to the good men and women of that time?

“I will get the evidence bag and lodge our departure,” 900 says, blinking away the newly incessant “ _Full Charge Required. Please Report To Charging Station_ ” as he does.

Subsistence charges and a heavier intake of thirium are taking their toll on him, but he’s far better off than Gavin, or Hank, or Tina or Chris or the Captain. Humans who need sleep and food and rest are ill suited to this new, overworked normal of theirs. 900 does not hold it against them and he heads straight for the lockers.

Today, like yesterday, will be a long day. Filing reports, heading out to respond to disturbance calls, investigating vandalism and assaults. Reassuring victims, placating angry bystanders, remaining indifferent to verbal abuse, avoiding physical assault where possible and reacting appropriately where not. Listening to reports, writing reports, searching reports.

A shooting at Barley’s, a break-in at Sevlt’s. A kidnapping ring linked to Red Ice dealing. Another squad sent to patrol New Jericho, another android friendly business assaulted, attempted arson at another android dominated apartment complex, another. Another. Another.

“Are you ready, Detective?” 900 asks, blinking away persistent alerts, watching Gavin blink himself lucid.

“Yeah sure, um, gimme a—hold on,” Gavin mutters, dragging a tired hand down his tired face and draining the cup. His eyes are unfocused as he stands but 900 knows that will clear up as they head down to the car. Gavin will drive, of course, as he’s best suited for it at all times, even now.

They meet Hank and Connor in the elevator, Hank and Gavin shuffling into the furthest corners from each other. Connor and 900 stepping into the empty middle space and reaching out for a quick interface.

The quick-fire information transfer is soothing, in a way. Connor’s been running around on his own as much as he’s been with Hank, he’s been dealing with Markus’ more directly than most could. Sorting out police patrols, human and android, figuring out scrambler workarounds and best practice retaliation to human attacks.

Androids have to be careful how they react to the violence, no matter how justified. Being recognised as living creatures was only the first step in their journey to equality, something humanity hadn’t sorted out amongst itself yet. Current remote access talks with the president were going well, barring current violence output, the results looked promising.

And 900? He’d been almost officially partnered to Gavin Reed, another precinct detective that’d gone a notable amount of time without one. Though, like Hank, the reasoning behind his lack of a partner was not stored anywhere electronic, and thus, unknown to them.

Did 900 like working with Gavin? Gavin Reed wasn’t a terrible partner, his sense of humour was abrasive and he was more vulgar than some, but he could be gentle, kind sometimes. There was also an unhealthy dose of self-loathing underneath the outright aggression that was hard to navigate, but none of it made Gavin a bad partner.

“This’s us,” Gavin grunts when the elevator stops at ground, and 900 follows him out, ending the interface smoothly. Connor and Hank are on their way to the underground parking.

Mamba is left behind, again, as they leave on their own, but the sun’s out. A tired Friday at the ass end of spring, Gavin said, but at least it has the decency to be almost nice. Still too cold for the time of year, another long reaching symptom of climate change despite the early 20s ratifications.

900 is waiting for Gavin to unlock the car when the message comes through.

From: RK800. Connor: Run!

900 vaults the car hood and grabs Gavin by the arm. There is a second of tension, confusion, Gavin stiffens, 900 pulls, and they start moving.

From: RK800. Connor: Bomb!

They are approximately two feet from the car, Gavin hitting stride, 900 dragging him faster, when Connor and Hank burst out of the underground parking entrance.

On his scanner, Connor is dragging Hank as well, they’re both panicked.

Stress Level: 50%

Gavin is shouting, nonsense words that mostly coalesce into the word “ _Fuck_ ”. He doesn’t fight the flight. Good.

Twenty feet from the gate. Connor closes the distance, human adrenaline and machine athleticism pushing Hank with him.

From: RK800. Connor: Further! We have to—

The message crackles into static and cuts as the explosion knocks them off their feet. Humans go down, androids drop atop them, covering and protecting.

Scanning-scanning: Building integrity unknown. Please move to secure location. Alert bomb squad.

RK900 grabs at the last objective, sending a precinct wide alert to every police registered android within short-range distance. It’s all he has the time for before another explosion fooms under their feet.

Gavin swears, Hank snarls, Connor and 900 stay where they are. Under open air, away from the main building. Best position they could be.

Another explosion—inaccurate; two concurrent explosions.

Scanning-scanning: Building integrity unknown. Please move to secure location.

Audio Analysis: Initial explosion match not found. Subsequent explosion match found. 3 electric powered cars. 3 contained explosions—

Audio Analysis: 4 electric powered cars. 4 contained explosions.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The explosions rattle off rapid fire, millisecond pauses between them. The initial explosion must be jumping between vehicles. Electric powered vehicles built to detonate in containment, safely—incorrect, designed with safer detonation than outdated gas powered models.

Hypothesis: Accelerant used to ensure destructive explosion.

“Fuck!” Gavin yelps when another, stronger, explosion rocks them.

RK900 presses closer, covers Gavin’s head, the vulnerable line of his spine. He digs his fingers into the concrete, does not care that he’s putting undue strain on his chassis. Connor is doing the same beside him.

So close, so very close. They could interface, share information, if either of them dared spare a hand. They do not.

Interfacing; instantaneous and secure information transfer.

Close Range Ping; instantaneous information transfer.

900 opens the channel when three subsequent seconds pass in lingering silence.

Connor is; frantic, panicked, Stress Level over 60%. Captain’s car target. More targets. Unknown. RK900, okay?

RK900 is; confused, weary, detonation form unknown? Stress Level over 60%. Stable.

Up, in the precinct they just left, androids are pinging each other. Silent cacophony, overwhelming. RK900 does not shut down the connection.

Tyler is alerting bomb squad. Did you hear that? What was that? Is anyone hurt? Is everyone okay? The humans! Was anyone downstairs? RK900. Connor. I saw them. They were just going down… ** _rA9_**. Are they—

900 cuts across that panic with a burst of; Here. Outside. Safe.

Connor fills in with; Secure Captain. Clear Building.

Under him, Gavin is breathing hard, breathing fast. His hands are up around his head, fingers laced across his neck in a defensive position. But his heart is beating too fast. RK900 feels it against his chest, through leather and cotton. But Gavin is breathing too shallow. RK900 hears harsh puffs, sharp gasps.

Conclusion: Detective Reed is undergoing a panic response.

Beside him, under Connor, Hank is not much better. Upstairs several people are also panicking, android and human. Several humans scrambled under their desks, several androids dropped down to block the opening, the humans just dragged them under too. People are struggling out of cramped spaces, getting ready to descend via the stairs.

Mamba is; in the Captain’s office, on the defensive. Priority one: Captain Fowler.

Scanning-scanning: Building integrity unknown. Please move to a secure location.

But also: No further explosions. Situation stable. Please move to a secure location.

As one, Connor and RK900 stand, assessing their surroundings via preconstruction and visual confirmation.

There is a thick, acrid smoke billowing out of the underground exit, a toxic mix of plasti-metal alloy and whatever accelerant was used to increase the severity of the explosions. Four cars, approximately, destroyed. The Captain’s most certainly, three others, possible patrol units?

Connor had heard the detonator count down, a distinctive tic they had been programmed to always scan for. Something passive enough to not actively shut down, active enough to make Connor look at Fowler’s car and see the wire set up. Manual set up, audible countdown. A message.

This was a message?

The first officers swarm out of the building as a cruiser from another precinct screeches to a halt outside their gates. As Gavin coughs, awkward and uncomfortable, and 900 reaches down to help him up. Hank gets to his feet on his own.

RK900 wants to ask, verbally, if everyone is okay. Gavin’s eyes are blown wide, blown black, only a sliver of starshine in a sea of night. Hank is thin lipped and pale, heartrate skyrocketed from panic response and adrenaline crash. Connor’s stress levels are higher than recommended and 900 feels the same.

They all stare at each other, as their co-workers spread out across the space, closing in on them. Androids are demanding integrity reports, humans are shouting questions, and Captain Fowler is striding towards them, furious, with Mamba at his side, alert.

RK900 knows that he and Connor will take point on this operation, they are best equipped to work down in the now toxic basement, they can be put back together if another explosion is triggered. RK900 understands the machine logic of it, but deviant emotion makes him reluctant to go.

He wants to stay, ensure Gavin’s safety, Hank’s health. He wants to mitigate panic responses, but they have a job to do.

From: RK800. Connor: I do not like this.

From: RK800. Connor: But this will help more in the long run.

To: RK800. Connor: I understand.

To: RK800. Connor: And I do not like it either.

Then, as one, they move to meet Captain Fowler.

* * *

The rest of the week is tense, pins prickling uneasy.

Androids move in partnered packs; one human per. Mamba is set to tail Captain Fowler at all times, she no longer goes with him on routine patrols or crime scene analysis. The Captain does not like it, believes it’s a waste of valuable resources, he doesn’t need a bodyguard but everyone in the precinct disagrees.

In the analysis of the scene, only allowed after the bomb squad swept the entire basement parking lot, RK900 finds the accelerant used to make the explosions so much more violent. Trace amounts of course, all that was left after the initial detonation, all but hidden in the pitted concrete below the burnt up husks. Chemical analysis identifies it as a military grade fire starter, used specifically for android engagement, capable of producing fires in excess of 3000 degrees Fahrenheit.

Hot enough to damage military grade plasti-steel, more than enough to destroy commercial grade plasti-metal.

Connor is able to reconstruct the scene within 83% accuracy and they determine the culprit left whole canisters of accelerant under random cars grouped close to the Captain’s with trails between them. Analysis determined one culprit; cameras determined nothing. Another scrambler let the unknown suspect in and out.

An unknown suspect that had a fairly good idea of what the precinct’s schedule looked like, even during this hectic time. The detonator had been counting down to the Captain’s regular lunch break, had two more hours before the planned detonation but had gone off upon detection because how?

Because the culprit had been watching, monitoring the station to ensure detonation. And when Connor had spotted the bomb, the culprit had blown it remotely. Had to have been within three miles, was gone within three minutes.

Fowler was displeased, the FBI was called in, and the city erupted.

The media demanded answers, would not take “ _no comment_ ” for one. They refused to believe the DPD didn’t have any suspects. They hounded officers, androids and humans, spamming inboxes, junking up phone lines to the point of a half dozen numbers being filtered straight into trash folders. They poked and pried and made things so much more tedious, so much more worse.

Markus was livid, the threat was clear, the threat was neon blue. He lobbied harder, his speeches were pointed, he worked it and worked it and worked it until…until he got a presidential meeting. Until President Warren agreed to meet, to talk about Markus’ concerns, to make things happen.

And RK900 was tired. And he was tired. And he was tired.

* * *

Everything comes to a crashing-smashing head when Senator Aisha Crane introduces a new bill to the senate. And it gets the majority vote. Then goes to congress, and majority vote, again.

Everything flips over, downside-up moreover, when President Warren approves it.

“Holy _fucking_ shit,” Chris breathes, when they hear, when that first report comes warbling across the radio.

“President Warren has approved equal pay across all fifty-two states, all genders, races, and species will be paid the same rates for the same jobs as per industry standard,” sits heavy and solid between them, in the empty space of the car.

RK900 accesses the web immediately, searching for the latest sources, immediately opening every major social media site. They weren’t expecting…he wasn’t…no one thought the choice would be made _today_. But it was, it has been…it’s here.

Chris just stares, blinking hard, swallowing harder. They’re stopped at a red light, on the way back to the precinct from another hate-crime scene, but none of that feels exactly real at the moment.

“Jesus fucking **_shit_** ,” Chris whispers as the light turns green and they do not go.

RK900 knows they should, getting back to the precinct is more important now, but he’s watching the press conference. President Warren on the stand, behind the podium again, her dress is a pale blue this time. She is confident as she speaks, not a stutter in her voice, as she tells the world what’s been decided.

What they’ve done. All of them. Markus lobbying, androids living, every responder that’s been fighting to hold the peace and the lid on the boil over. And now, the first step is here. RK900 feels…well he feels.

From: JB300. Tyler: All android officers are requested back at station.

RK900 processes the message as the radio crackles to life with a soft tone. Chris reaches for it numbly, automatically.

“Unit 970 here, Dispatch,” he says, unsteady yes but said all the same. He is a good officer.

“Recall of all android officers to station,” Tyler reports, the same as the message pasted across all of his open tabs. Top priority message. Top priority override.

“RK900, confirm?” Tyler asks and 900 realises, he’s only been staring at the message. He hasn’t responded to it.

“Confirm, we are enroute,” he answers, automatic, stilted. Beside him, in the driver’s seat, Chris is breathing slow and steady, calming himself down. The light is still green.

“Noted,” Tyler says, and the call ends.

And they’re still at the green light.

RK900 isn’t sure what to say, if he _should_ say something.

Congratulations? Finally? As expected? What, exactly, happens now?

Connor told him the time after the Revolution was confusing. No one knew what to do, no one knew how the new world worked. President Warren had acknowledged androids as a sentient species, and then what?

What, for Connor, was going home to Hank. Shoulders slumped, Amanda erased from his code, confused but pleased, and in need of a thirium refill.

What, for Hank, had been opening the door and finding the android he’d called son, who he cared for but never expected to see again. Had been inviting Connor inside, offering him a thirium pack, something Hank had because of course he would stop to pick some up. No matter if he expected to see Connor again or not.

What, for RK900, seems to be sitting and staring while his processors grate through the crush of information. Social media sites are crashing. Telecommunication networks might go next.

“We should head back to the precinct,” Chris says, more confident than he looks, and 900 nods. Yes, they should, but his hands are shaking.

The finest, barest tremors, something a human wouldn’t perceive, something most androids wouldn’t look for.

Stress Level: 41%

“Yeah,” and Chris flips the siren as the light blinks yellow.

They break the light, and the speed limit on the way back. Chris driving a marked five miles above that 900 saying nothing about. In the empty streets, there’s no particular danger, and the internet is electrocuting itself with information. Everyone has an opinion, everyone else disagrees.

A cascading cacophony, worse than the station after their unknown bomber, worse than the androids forever pinging each other now. RK900 isn’t sure what will happen now, what they will have to deal with, but he immediately pings Jericho his priority alert and location. He’s sure Tyler and other dispatch androids have already sent the message, but it’s something to do.

Something other than staring out the window, reading reports, and watching the rain. They’ll want a count of all androids in the city.

“Hey, uh, RK? We’re gonna—I mean it’s gonna uh be okay,” Chris starts, stops, and rallies through. Breaking another light, keeping his eyes on the road.

“I mean, it’s all confusing now but it’ll get better, just gotta y’know, push through,” and there is a bead of sweat creeping down the man’s neck, a tension in his shoulders. RK900 understands that Chris Miller is using his presence as a proxy, a reason to say the words Chris does not wholly believe in order to convince himself of their truth. 900 says nothing, because specifically for his benefit or not, he finds the words comforting.

Chris was one of the officers present for Markus’ peaceful protest, he shot and killed several androids, a fact of which he is not proud but something that happened all the same. Now, Chris Miller, one time android killer, is sharing a police cruiser with an android and reassuring it of a murky future.

Chris, never a bad man, still had space to reflect and change. Gavin Reed, not a bad man either, worked through some of his darker hatreds to become friends with an android, unofficial partners even. 900 knows they are not models of their species, not the average, above or below, but he knows living creatures cannot be measured by an average.

Androids had been built on code, numbers and statistics, concrete integers plugged into solid formulae. Preconstruction, predetermination, it was what their species was created for, but they were living creatures now and deviancy had freed them from their numbers.

So, how does he interpret this new data? The reports, the videos, the social media flood?

Short term results of President Warren’s new bill:   
\- Increased anti-android sentiment  
\- Increased Red Ice related android crimes  
\- Further increased hours at the station

Long term results of President Warren’s new bill:

\- The Start of Change  
\- A New Normal  
\- A Better Society

“I trust your judgement, Chris,” 900 says as they approach the precinct gates.

* * *

“Truth,” Connor sighs, shoulders heaving and cheeks puffing out with the motion. He looks rather human as he does it.

“Have you ever analysed Sumo’s dog food?” RK900 asks, bored and not really interested in the answer. Because Connor picked truth, and he’s _been_ picking truth the entire afternoon, because they have nothing to do.

The most advanced android models ever created by human hands, ever _conceptualised_ by human thought, _and they have nothing to do._

900 thinks, if they don’t find something engaging in the next half hour, he might try his hand at becoming the world’s first android lightning rod. Surely getting struck by lightning would be preferable to sitting in Hank’s empty house, with Connor, playing truth or dare. Anything would be.

“Yes, when Hank first invited me to live with him. Sumo’s food had a higher nutrition content than Hank’s,” Conner answers and 900 nods, and they both sigh.

After a month of non-stop hostility and overwork to the point of collapse, Detroit has finally stabilised again. Another historic moment, another win in the fight for equal rights, and 900 idly wonders how many of these the city can host before it collapses completely. He also wonders why, after that month of high stress and tension, he cannot enjoy his “ _vacation_ ”.

Though, calling it a vacation would imply a level of choice in the matter. Neither himself, nor Connor had had any. Nor had any of the androids at the precinct. After Markus had fought it down and the bill was passed, made law, and implemented, every android at the DPD had been given two weeks (no less than) paid vacation time. None of them were allowed to come in to do any work, Captain’s orders.

Human officers, of course, were called in to fill the work gaps, but for once there was no complaining on the matter. Android hate crimes had fallen significantly, percolating and solidifying around the issue of Red Ice and its dwindling supply, but otherwise Detroit almost seemed peaceful again.

Of course the Captain had jumped at the chance to give people a break, and not get on the wrong side of the newly installed android rights organizations. Androids who’d been working at the DPD before the law, and even before the Revolution, were entitled to a quite a bit of free time, and they would never take it unless pushed.

So, here is Connor, and RK900, pushed into relaxing. And, after a week of spending time on their own and being bored beyond belief, they decided to pool their resources and be bored together. At Hank’s (and Connor’s) house because there were more rooms to be bored in there, and another dog to lay on.

“So you licked the dog food,” 900 deadpans, staring his predecessor down until Connor rolls his eyes and looks away.

To the corner where Sumo is on his back, paws in the air, snoring as loudly as a dog can (very loudly) while Mamba lays on his belly. As an official K9 android of the DPD, she doesn’t get off time, but since her handler (RK900) was on leave, she was too.

“Yes, I licked the dog food. No, you are not allowed to tell Hank,” and Connor pouts, like a child who’s been told “ _no ice-cream_ ”, like he is not capable of blue blooded murder. RK900, a highly advanced and mature piece of machinery, raises one brow, opens one chat group, and gets to his feet.

Connor is staring him down, daring him to send the text he is so carefully constructing, every character a masterpiece in itself. RK800, sleek and lithe, created with advanced interrogation and manipulation social modules, highly suited and best adapted to forensic work and eventual deviancy. RK900, tall and imposing, built with military grade combat protocols and perfected forensic capabilities, able to function at peak performance at far longer than any other android in existence.

They are two incredible works of technology, miraculous prototypes and the only ones of their kind.

Connor glares, eyebrows furrowed, LED flashing yellow. 900 returns that glare, never breaks contact as his own LED blips white. Message sent.

To: Anderson Group Chat  
\- Hank, Connor licked Sumo’s dog food.

Advanced evasion protocol engages, three escape routes processed, one chosen. RK900 is running before Connor’s ping connects, dancing out of his predecessor’s precise grasp. Betrayal, deceit, _Traitor!_ Ring out behind him.

From: Anderson Group Chat  
\- Again?!   
\- wtf Con?   
\- stop putting shit in your mouth!

The messages come rapid fire, multi-text from Hank at his desk. One, two, three, and 900 laughs, stilted and static, a noise he was never designed for. He laughs, because he can and this is funny, and ducks low to avoid a pillow pelted with deadly accuracy.

He rounds the corner, hits the bottom of the stairs and starts them three at a time as more pillows smack into the wood, the wall, the bannister behind him.

“Nines!” Connor shouts, half-angry, half-desperate, racing after him. At the foot of the stairs when 900 is in the middle, lunging at him as he makes the top.

“ _Again_ Eights?!” 900 yells, taunting and teasing as he pivots at the top of the stairs, getting a perfect snapshot look at Connor’s furrowed brown and pursed lips. Here is the Detective Connor the DPD has so come to love, the endearing, slightly awkward android that wins so many over with his puppy brown eyes and mole speckled face. Here is not the killing thing in human’s skin that Cyberlife set loose on the world.

Connor, not just RK800, makes another attempt at snatching him, aiming for the fluttering tail of a jacket, but 900 is too fast for him. He grabs Connor’s reaching arm, fingers around a sturdy wrist, and flings Connor into the wall, hard enough to make him move, not enough to crack the plaster.

“I was worried about his health!” Connor lies, almost imperceptibly, almost perfectly. Eyes wide, lips parted, the picture perfect innocent. He cowers against the wall, as though he hurts, he pleads, as though he’s negotiating his own life. And he takes the barest step forward, so delicate no other model would register it.

900 cocks his head, nearly imperceptibly, and dashes down the hall, just missing Connor’s perfectly timed pounce. The passing breeze of Connor’s arm ruffles the top of his head, the sweep of his coat brushing his cheek as he darts past.

900 ducks, Connor misses, and 900 is running again, with Connor following of course. And RK900 grins as he goes, too wide and too happy, swiping away pre-constructions that take him to the bathroom and out the small window, that take him to Hank’s room and out that window, that turn him around mid-stride and under Connor’s reach. No, pre-constructions are predictable, Connor knows how his run, so 900 embraces every point of his encompassing deviancy and does something…unexpected.

“RK900!” Connor squawks, as 900 side-steps into a room, **_his_** room.

Connor blows past, momentum carrying him three more steps down the hall before he can turn. RK900 only needs the span of one to slam the door in Connor’s scandalised face, but the extra two are appreciated. They give him the chance to lean against the unlocked door, brace himself, and let out the burbling, gurgling laugh that Cyberlife would’ve been so disappointed to hear.

So disappointed and confused, because he was a combat model, because he was a war machine. RK900 did not _need_ to laugh, and he did not need joy, or happiness, but that is what he has now. Laughing against the door, arms wrapped around his stomach as he chokes on static laced laughter.

Because this is _fun_ , this is all so much fun!

Outwitting Connor, spilling the spilt beans to Hank, racing through the house with a minimum exertion of force. All of it is invigorating and _fun_ , none of it was what he was programmed for.

Connor pounds on the door, shoving his considerable weight against it, but the solid wood does not move. RK900 is braced against it, laughing though he is, and it will not move. The wood creaks, the frame bows, but the door itself does not move an inch. Despite 900’s laughter wracking his entire frame, bursting from him joyfully, like a geyser.

He enjoys this, oh how he enjoys this. Connor is whining at the door, making sugar sweet promises of no retaliation, but 900 knows better. He knows what Connor was designed for and he knows how good of a liar his predecessor can be. He also knows Connor is a dirty, little grudge holder who hates being embarrassed in any form or fashion.

Could RK900 take RK800 (Connor) in a fight? _Most_ certainly. He was the military model after all, but Connor never fights fair, and this is more enjoyable.

“Please open the door RK900, I require something inside,” Connor tries, inevitably slumping and taking his customary seat on the carpet. Usually that spot is outside Hank’s room, during the times 900 doesn’t jump out the window and hop the low backyard fence. Connor sits on the floor outside Hank’s door and 900 usually sits in Hank’s room, but he’s switched it up.

A change of pace to keep them both enriched.

“No you do not,” 900 says, sliding down the door as well, taking a seat on the immaculately clean carpet. Connor’s carpet is in much better condition than Hank’s, cleaner, newer, a light shade of blue.

Connor’s room was emptier than Hanks, obviously, no bed or night stand, no dresser or vanity, but it wasn’t an unlived in space. Connor had a desk and a sleek, slim laptop for the times he preferred tactile stimulus. He had his charging port in an unobtrusive corner and shelves set into every wall, this one holding neat casefiles, that one housing neat gem clusters, one with novelty dog plushies.

And the windows of course, an entire wall turned into windows of two way glass. Connor rarely closed the blinds, preferring the natural light and open view. RK900 can appreciate it now, as his staticed giggles die down and he settles into something close to calm. He appreciates the soft, late-spring sunlight falling across the carpet, making everything so much warmer.

“What do you think of the name Richard?” Connor asks, verbally and at regular volume, to indicate he is entirely serious.

There are exactly five seconds of dead silence. In the room and in the hall, in the house and on the street. Not a sound that either of them can detect.

Then Connor snorts, an unwieldly sound grating across his vocal processor, then RK900’s head _thunks!_ back on the door, then they’re both laughing too loud and too much and so happy.

They laugh, like neither of them were designed to do, and they enjoy each other’s company, in a way Cyberlife never intended for their models. RK900 with static in his throat, Connor with unattractive snorts peppered throughout.

And, when Hank arrives less than five minutes later, they’re still laughing.

“Down Sumo! –oof, Mamba! Not you too! 900, Connor, come get’cher crazy dogs off me!”

When Hank gets bowled over by two impossibly happy dogs, they laugh harder.

* * *

According to weather reports, June will be wetter than May, adjusted to include increased rainfall after 20’s climate change disasters. However, RK900 has come to realise that many things often defy machine calculated predictions. Humans among them.

When June blows in, humid and warmer than May, drier as well, the entire city winds down the slightest bit. Warmer days encourage families out into the city, off to the parks. Children on summer break fill the streets and adolescents flood shopping plazas and singular cafes. Every weekend there’s another a festival, another piece of Detroit comes alive, and it’s entirely different to the city RK900 woke up to.

June, as he understands, is the first month of summer. The days are longer, the sunshine stretches further, and something innate to humanity unwinds into a peaceful slog. Androids, creatures of metal and plastic, thirium circulation and machine logic, should not have anything like that. But they do.

When June comes and artists flood the streets, androids go with them. Jericho’s artists, every shade and span of them, set up their pieces and show off their work. Glass blown by artificial breath, metal worked by steady hands. There are pieces that are spectacular, mechanically perfect in ways humans cannot so easily be, and there are works that are endearingly bad.

Connor, a model designed for delicate words and precise strikes, makes something of clay and glaze at a fair. It’s meant to be a pot, or a jar, or a cup, no one is quite sure at the end. There are so many lumps and the sides are uneven, thickness varied, even the colours of the glaze clash and run and smear, but Connor is proud of it. And Hank puts it on the mantel piece in a place of honour.

There are fairs, too, and Chris brings Damian, and Tina brings her girlfriend, and Gavin brings himself, and they’re a much bigger group than RK900 thought he’d ever be part of. A group where he holds a small boy on his shoulders, because he is tallest, and where humans bicker and fight over the best fair food. Cotton candy or funnel cake or candy apples on sticks.

He plays the games, and wins so many prizes. A stuffed elephant for Damian, a jump rope for Hank, a whole packet of “ _good job!_ ” stickers (ages 3-7) that he promptly opens and sticks on Gavin’s jacket. They make a game of that too, finding new and stranger stickers to slap on Gavin’s jacket, or hand, or face.

RK900 learns how to properly eat a corndog, then spit it all back up because his system isn’t modified for eating. He takes pictures in cramped photo booths just like the ones Hank remembers from his childhood. There are so many reels of pictures that everyone gets some, Tina and her girlfriend, Chris and his family, Hank dragging Connor and 900 in with him. Then all of them squeezing in together, and almost breaking the booth.

900 keeps his picture in his jacket, Connor keeps his tacked to his desk, Gavin laughs it off as stupid sentiment but his pictures go in his wallet. All of them, from every fair. The ones with Connor and the ones with Hank, the ones Tina takes with her “retro-instant” camera, and even the few blurry, half developed ones he gets off improperly constructed fair rides.

They make memories and they keep memories and RK900 learns and grows and is. Through the golden sun shining days and the first summer of his life.

* * *

Towards the end of June, on the summer solstice, Gavin invites him out to a bonfire night. Only him, and Mamba, not Connor included, not Tina’s already there. Gavin invites _RK900_ to a bonfire night and fireworks show out in a park far enough from the city that the noise won’t bother anyone.

And it’s two weeks into them being official unofficial partners, and three since Gavin first called him a friend, and a month since Detroit stepped back from the edge. And it’s this, and it’s that, and RK900 says _yes_ of course, he is interested in fireworks and would love to see a display of them. Neither of them mention that he could simply wait until July 4th, or download a VR experience of it.

Gavin offers him fireworks and RK900 accepts them, that’s all there is to it. (There’s so much more).

But they act like there isn’t. That it’s normal for Gavin to pick him up from his apartment, because it is now, and for RK900 to switch the radio to the station he prefers. Old aughties music Gavin says, pop classics that he nevertheless sings along to. Lady Gaga carries them out of the city, just to the outskirts.

And she’s crooning about her love and romance when they pull up to the spot. As they get out and Gavin spreads a plaid blanket on the half brown grass, and RK900 gets the cooler from the trunk. They pick a spot, Gavin does really, far enough away from the families already there to have some privacy but not so far away that they’re all alone.

900 can hear the gentle waft of children’s voices on the wind, their laughter, and children’s laughter is quite soothing, provided their words are muddled. Another thing 900 has learnt since his activation, like his preference for less violent crime scenes and proclivity for house plants, enough to fill the entire window of his apartment. Another thing to add into his database of titbits and personality pieces, like his friends and relationships and slow growth of character.

They sit, together, on the blanket, backs against the car with Mamba sprawled across their laps. Gavin pets her automatically now, no hiding behind bluster and attitude. She rests her head on his thigh and Gavin pets her silky soft fur, easy and instinctual.

“My ma’d bring me out here for my bro’s birthday every summer,” Gavin laughs, head tipped up at the sky, smile so easy on his lips. And he looks so at ease.

Sitting in the grass just outside of the city he was born and grew up in, in clothes that aren’t uniform or leather, Gavin seems…unwound. No, not unwound, but not relaxed either, he seems, softer? Yes softer. Without his leather and his bluster, sitting in the quiet mid-summer twilight, Gavin seems softer.

From the set of his set to the droop of his shoulders and the light in his eyes. Gavin looks _happy_ , and RK900 likes that. Feels so privileged to be allowed to see this.

“I mean half-brothers cuz dad was a cheatin’ piece of shit, but his ma never held it against us. We didn’t live together but we knew each other, talked,” Gavin shrugs, and takes a puff on his cigarette, pets Mamba’s head.

He’s looking out at the skyline, the glitter of Detroit so nearly far, but RK900 can tell he’s seeing something else too, or rather, remembering something else. The half-brother he did not grow up with but knew, the father that sounded out of the picture for both. Gavin has never talked about his family before, or his life prior to joining the police force, and 900 is eager to hear more.

But, also, not. If that is all he gets today, then that would be okay. He already has so much just from being here, on a plaid blanket, legs brushing, shoulders touching. Physical affection did wonders for humans, promoted serotonin and dopamine production, made them happy. And androids did not have that, no endocrine system, no adrenal responses, but RK900 likes this closeness, the impossible to deny proof of physical affection.

Away from them, across the field and settling around the starting bonfire, are other people. A few families clustered around, children holding marshmallows at the ready; their delighted shrieking and cacophony singing floating back on the breeze. Further away, drawn back from the families, are cars dotted along the far edge of the field; couples enjoying a quiet piece of romance.

If he turns up his audio sensitivity, RK900 can hear the sweet nothings whispered between kisses, the content sighs as each person relaxes into their partner. Not all of them are human, the families or the couples, some of the couples are human and android, just as romantic and in love as any other. And isn’t that something? Isn’t that lovely?

There’s been so much hate and rage and death, but there’s love here too, how remarkable.

“You’ve never mentioned family before Gavin, thank you for sharing this with me,” 900 hums, turning down his audio sensitivity to a human level. To where he can only hear Mamba’s soft snuffling and Gavin’s slow breath, long and contemplative.

He does not tense up, nor grit his teeth and say it’s none of RK900’s business. In the past, yes that would have been Gavin’s standard reaction, but they’ve moved past that to a comfortable friendship. RK900 is his official unofficial partner, the very first one since an incident that wiped six months off Gavin’s official record.

The last partner Gavin had had, a Detective Daniel Holston, had been listed as lost in the line of duty, cause of death; gunshot wound. RK900 does not need a supercomputer for a brain to put the pieces together and formulate a possible explanation, but he does not speculate because it is not his place. Gavin deserves his privacy, as all people do, and RK900 would not breach it unasked.

“Yeah well, not something that comes up, and not like people’d believe if I told ‘em, y’know?” Gavin laughs, again, but this is bitter. Bitter and sullen and old, a tired tone of voice for a tired topic, an issue Gavin has talked about over and over ad nauseam perhaps.

And RK900 frowns, and he cocks his head. Nowhere in Gavin’s file had a next of kin been listed, particularly nothing as close as a brother. There had been Gavin’s general information, his medical history and current medication intake but nothing about a brother. Only, except, there had been a number to contact in case of emergency, a simple landline number with nothing else.

And now Gavin here, bitter over some part of the brother that wasn’t really a brother, a half-brother because his father couldn’t keep it in his pants.

“Fuck, not like you’ll go shouting shit around the office or anything,” Gavin grumbles, rolling his eyes frustrated and familiar, but there’s a friendliness about it. A quirk to his lips that belies true annoyance, and a scritch under Mamba’s chin that’s still relaxed.

“Elijah, Elijah Kamski,” Gavin sounds out, dragging the name out, not meeting 900’s eyes as he sucks down another nicotine laden breath. Nor as he puffs the smoke to the sky, tapping the end and ashing in a patch of bare dirt.

“Lijah’s my brother, Mr Hotshit Robot God himself, who saw that one coming?” Gavin laughs, almost bitter again, but…but still calm, still relaxed, still with some affection. And RK900 blinks. He taps his fingers along his leg, a simple pattern, a rote-memory pattern. One two three, one two three, one two three _four_.

On his leg, along his thigh. Processing-processing.

Gavin Reed  
Age: 36  
Occupation: Detective  
Years active: 16  
Misc:   
-Gavin Reed entered the police academy at 20, two years after graduation from Detroit High.   
-Medical history indicating one major surgery, elective in nature. Two prescription drugs taken daily, one vitamin supplement taken sporadically.  
-Attained rank of Detective at 30 after major weapon trafficking bust.  
-Unexplained, six-month leave of absence in 3rd year of detective rank.  
-No family recorded—Incorrect.   
-Single family member recorded: Elijah Kamski.

And RK900 compares. The structure of Gavin’s face to the father of android kind, the broken line of his nose, the thin slant of his lips. Their eyes are distinctive shades of grey and blue, rare and uncommon colours respectively but with the same potential of phenotype expression from the right gene combination.

And the set of Gavin’s jaw and the solid set of his shoulders when he’s ready to dig in and argue a point down. Compared to the subtle menace and sharp line of Kamski in person, through Connor’s memory of him. The rabid Pit Bull and the arrogant Sphynx…brothers.

“I can see the resemblance, now that you’ve pointed it out,” RK900 says at last (after a minute of processing) and Gavin barks a laugh. Very much literally. The noise boofs out of his chest and snaps against his teeth, startled and genuine.

Gavin barks a laugh that has Mamba perking up and boofing in response. Tongue hanging out, whole body wriggling in joy and glee.

“Ha! First one to say that, 900!” Gavin snorts, grinning and snickering, scratching Mamba vigorously. And like that, so easy, everything is so much looser, more open and free.

Gavin is here, without his leather and anger, and RK900 is here, with affection and deviancy. And the fireworks too.

They start one at a time. Android blue sparkles dance over the tree tops, then human red burst above. One, by one, by one, bursts of light and booms of sound, beautiful in the sunset streaked sky. Blue against the orange, red against pink.

Then the display picks up, faster and bigger and brighter. Purple and yellow and green and glittering, glimmering gold. RK900 can’t tear his eyes away from it all, the patterns and pictures made out of gunpowder and pigment. Can’t manage to close his mouth as he stares and records and watches it all.

The bonfire catches up as the fireworks burst, licks of flame dancing under twinkles of colour. And it’s so beautiful, it’s so _alive_.

Like the children screaming with happiness and the couples gasping in wonder and a little shock. Like the parents lifting their children higher, up onto shoulders, held steady on top of cars. Like the lovers holding each other and kissing so sweetly as the romance of this longest day wraps around them so tight.

Like Gavin next to him, laughing and oohing and aahing _next to him_. An android, his partner, his friend. Alive, like RK900 himself.

* * *

Mid-way into July Mrs Singh’s granddaughter comes to visit her, and towards the start of it, RK900 goes over to help her clean up her apartment. Because her granddaughter will be staying with her and they’ll share the bed but it’s been so long since she’s given the place a proper cleaning and she can’t quite move the furniture on her own. Something RK900 knew, after detecting the dust and gathered under the heavy couch and the settled mark of the sideboard under the tv.

He goes over of course, on one of his rare Saturdays off. Prepared with a bag full of cleaning supplies and cloth masks for Mrs Singh, in the event of dust overwhelming them.

They start in the bedroom, Mrs Singh cleaning out her dresser while 900 lifts the bed to vacuum underneath. Which is a task, unexpectedly so, because it is easy to lift the bed and hold it over his head indefinitely, but there are things underneath. Boxes of knickknacks, and some books, shoes and some glassware clearly older than the first android line.

And all of it is coated in a fine layer of dust, with the odd dust bunny hidden under an edge. He goes carefully between and over, attaching the finest tip to the vacuum hose and contorting himself in inhuman ways to get every square inch. He was asked for help and he will provide it, to the best of his abilities (which are extensive) despite Mrs Singh telling him really he needn’t bother.

“Leave it alone boy, don’t trouble yourself,” are her exact words, and he chooses to exactly ignore them.

After the bedroom is the living room, which is more fun. Because he tells Mrs Singh, politely, that he’d prefer to work alone on it and she really should have lunch. So she’s sat, at the kitchen table, telling him stories of her grandchildren as he vacuums and wipes and waters all of her houseplants.

There’s so much more to clean in her home, more glass fronted pictures, more furniture to lift and clean under. There are catalogues of holiday cards, birthday cards, some handmade with childish scrawl and crayon drawings. On a shelf set to the side, there are little statues of clearly deific figures, and a little clay pot with oil and wick, unlighted.

RK900 leaves the shelf untouched, bowing his head respectfully as he moves past them. Everything on that shelf is clean and well taken care of, there’s nothing for him to do there, but he wouldn’t touch it even if there was.

It wasn’t that Mrs Singh doesn’t take care of her home but rather RK900 is what Hank calls…hypochondriac? Despite his status as a machine precluding him from any form of bacteria or virus borne disease. There is no reason for him to be as particular about the cleanliness of his environment as he is, but Connor tells him there’s nothing wrong with that.

“You’re cleaning this place better than I could, I think it’s great!” Mrs Singh laughs, when he mentions it to her, and that puts him back at ease as he wipes down the walls with a mild cleaner.

He has an internal clock, precise down to the picosecond, that keeps immaculate minutes. RK900 can account for every second of his day and preconstruct time saving alternatives to experienced tasks. He can even rewrite his base memory in order to hasten the response time on said tasks.

Cleaning is nothing. Cleaning is below his model grade and his designers would spit in the face of anybody who dared suggest he do it. However, as he cleans for his elderly neighbour, listening to her stories about her life before America, and before Detroit, he finds himself losing time. The seconds do not slog, the hours do not drag. 900 forgets to count and he lets himself simply exist.

* * *

One beautiful morning, RK900 walks into the precinct with Mamba at his heels and immediately freezes at the entryway. Officer Loren, one of their newest android officers, stops up short behind him and sends a politely inquisitive ping.

“My partner is not here,” is all the answer 900 gives before proceeding into the room as though he had not faltered. And he proceeds to work on all of his open cases, as though nothing is wrong, and collaborates with Connor on a few joint cases, and even agrees to drinks with Tina and Rosalind, _her_ newest partner.

They’ve gotten an influx of officers in the last two weeks, brand new rookies fresh from the academy, all so very eager to get their feet wet on the job. That all of them are androids makes no difference in their level of enthusiasm, in fact, there is a 6.82% increase in the level of enthusiasm from android rookies than human. Of their new batch, not a single android given the role of officer was a model designed for the job, RK900 thinks he can understand their zeal.

He himself had not arrived at the precinct through normal channels. He had not been to the academy or been through preparatory classes, had not even participated in a single drill. RK900 had been found (in one of Cyberlife’s top clearance workshops) activated (by the RK800 he had been designed to replace) and brought to the precinct (because he had nowhere else to go). His case had been unique, he’d had advanced combat programs and a state of the art forensic laboratory in his mouth.

And he’d had all of Connor’s uploaded memories and knowledge of the DPD, it had been an easy decision for Fowler to make. And an easy enough thing to sweep under the rug in those chaotic days just after the Revolution.

Now, androids have to go through the same training as humans, albeit an accelerated program, and they’ve finally made it into precincts. RK900 finds himself tracking the rookies around the room more than he focuses on his cases, not that any of them are particularly hard. They’re all open and shut, as Gavin would say, and the perps are obvious, there’s no reason to engage advanced reconstructions for most of them.

The few that do only take his attention for half an hour at most, and then he’s back to tracking rookies to fill his time.

Because…because Gavin isn’t there and no one seems to mind, or notice. Tina is out on patrol for the day, showing her new partner the ropes, and Chris is bogged down with paperwork from a recent drug bust. And that’s it. There’s no one else in the precinct who cares, or would care, that Gavin isn’t there.

Which…RK900 does understand, his officially unofficial partner is abrasive by design, dedicated to keeping others out of his business and out of his hair, but there are some redeeming factors to be found. Tenacity, for one.

Gavin Reed is tenacious and dedicated to his work. 900 doesn’t have to pull up his partner’s record to know the cashed in sick days are dismally low. There’s really only the one absence beyond a few doctor mandated rest periods. A handful of time Gavin was too sick to physically come in, and even then he’d called ahead and had some of his cases dropped off at his apartment. The address of which 900 knows of course.

And they _are_ friends, aren’t they? Gavin knows where he lives, and has given him rides to and from on occasion. They’ve been on several outings together, and know more about each other than they would learn through casual observation, or even intense observation. RK900 doesn’t think Gavin would mind him stopping by after work, even without a text ahead.

A text he should send but somehow doesn’t. 900 tells himself he will, after this write up, after that evidence scan, after his break with Connor, after the rookies figure out the communal kitchen arrangement. After-after-after ends up never, and 900 breezes through his acceptably productive, unacceptably boring day.

When he’s ready to leave at the end, there’s no shouting or complaint, there’s no one hounding him down for an extra hour because a case just came up. RK900 is able to shut down his terminal, lock his desk, and get Mamba kitted out for their walk, all with good time until clock out.

And no one calls them back as they do go. No one runs after them to sign something, no one pings him with a case or a request, Captain Fowler nods as he passes the man’s office. For once, his day is normal and RK900 thinks he hates it, calm and quiet, he should enjoy both, but he does not.

Calm and quiet makes him tense around the shoulders, devotes a section of processing power to threat scanning and keeps him…on edge. He does not like it and he knows it’s all because Gavin was missing; a vital element to 900’s routine was gone and all the rest had shifted off balance. Of course he had adapted to the changed variables and performed efficiently but he didn’t like it.

He did not like it and smiles as he walks because he has the option to not like things. Deviancy gave him that privilege. The privilege to like or dislike his co-workers and appreciate their impact on his life. He can feel the fresh summer breeze on his face and enjoy the scent of fresh water off the port.

Michigan summers aren’t the warmest in the country but they are a nice change to the balmy spring just past. And RK900 lets himself enjoy the walk to Gavin’s apartment, all twenty minutes of it.

There are children out, playing in front of apartments and in blocked off streets. There are parks flooded with families and vendors, people selling snowcones and ice-cream, even some thirium exclusive vendors. YK models run and giggle alongside human children, blending in seamlessly while their adult caretakers watch.

All kinds of models care for the YKs now, not just the former caretaker models. Former combat models and construction builds are lined off with the rest of guardians, chatting together while keeping an eye on their wards. Some have LEDs, some do not, all move too smoothly to be human, most move too far to be natural. Joints bend, and then bend too far, heads cock and then snap too quick. None of them sweat.

But, and 900 is surprised to note, all of them speak with the same authenticity. He doesn’t listen in on their conversations but his scanning software does pick out their tones, the emotion and sentiment threaded through their voices. They sound happy, they sound alive, and he supposes this is the changed society Markus lead them to.

…RK900 has never met the deviant leader, not in his own flesh, but he would like to, he thinks. To speak with him, analyse him, perhaps thank him if something like that wasn’t too cliché.

He spends the last five minutes of the walk to Gavin’s apartment analysing cloud patterns and calculating the chance of a midsummer thunderstorm. And then, he’s there, at Gavin’s apartment complex which doesn’t look so very different from his. A line of buildings with dark brickwork and darker windows, no children playing in the yards, only a few manual cars parked on the street.

Mamba bounds forward carelessly, she already knows which must be Gavin’s, his car is there. 900 follows slower, trailing after her and wondering if this was a welcome decision. Gavin hadn’t called in sick, to his knowledge, and hadn’t made any attempt to contact anyone otherwise. Perhaps he had taken a sabbatical and didn’t wish to be bothered, maybe he’d partied too hard on Saturday and needed an additional Monday to recover.

Maybe he was face down in his bed, wracked with fever and whole body aches, or maybe he was collapsed in his bathroom, or passed out in his kitchen. Had fallen with a knife and stabbed himself, bled out in the living room. Was he—

The door opening snaps him out of his morbid pondering and an older RT600 model blinks at him.

“RK900, please come up, Gavin requested you not stand in the street like a spook,” the RT says, calm and soothing like their model was developed to be, and their wording is so specifically Gavin that 900 knows the detective sent the RT down. Though, 900 doesn’t know why, or rather, _how_.

He was entirely sure Gavin had worked past his hatred of androids but not to the point of making friends with them outside of a work setting. 900 was sure Gavin hadn’t progressed to the point of making friends with _humans_ outside of a work setting, as uncharitable as that thought might be.

“Thank you, is Gavin alright?” he asks, stepping out of the scorching mid-evening sun and into the cool of the apartment, still following after Mamba. The RT takes the time to shut and lock the door, a physical lock snapping into place.

“He’s fine, his fever broke this morning and Elijah convinced him to eat some soup,” the RT explains, and sweeps past, through the small lounge to the elevator, “He’ll be glad to see you.”

RK900 considers asking her more, whether the Elijah she’s referring to is Elijah Kamski, whether she is the original Chloe model, though his scans indicate otherwise. He even considers asking her how she knows him and what Gavin has said, but he does not, all of that is Gavin’s private business and 900 promised himself he would not pry into that. So, he follows the RT instead, stepping into the elevator and standing to the side as she takes them to the seventh floor.

“Please don’t think he wanted to worry you, Gavin didn’t exactly call Elijah either,” the RT says at the third floor.

“He’s very stubborn, even with a fever of 105,” the RT laughs, quietly and to herself, but it’s the same kind of fondness 900 hears in his own voice whenever Gavin’s self-sabotaging nature rears its ugly head. Clearly the RT knows Gavin, and has known him for a while, and 900’s curiosity grows but not to the point of demanding answers. And the rest of the ride up to the seventh floor and walk to apartment 7M is silent, the RT says nothing more and 900 offers nothing himself.

He wants to see Gavin and scan with his own sensors, a fever of one hundred and five wasn’t particularly normal and not something he should have stayed home to deal with. And if he didn’t have any affinity for hospitals then he could have least requested one of the medical models from the precinct. None of the KS400s would have had a problem making a house call, but, this was Gavin and Gavin was often the worst judge concerning his own health.

“Oh Jesus, what’d you tell him Phee? He looks ready to write my fucking eulogy,” Gavin complains as loud and brash as ever from a spot on the couch. A couch that is surrounded by two different waste bins (contents; mucus covered tissues and vomit) and heaped with pillows, cushions, and three different quilts, all large, all heavy, and all very fluffy.

And, in the middle, with a very red nose and a visible sweat, is Gavin. His eyes are bloodshot, his lips are cracked, and his hair is plastered to his head with sweat, but he is alive. And scowling, and stopping to sniff so the effect of the scowl is lost.

“He looked like that before I told him anything, Gavin,” the RT600 (Phee) says, serene and gentle, but 900 gets the distinct idea that her smile is faked. She seems…upset, at Gavin? Most likely.

“I was worried when you abstained from work today, I came to check on you and ensure your safety,” RK900 explains, shifting awkwardly and feeling entirely out of place in Gavin’s home. Because he is in Gavin’s home and he shouldn’t have come here without calling ahead, friends or not, officially unofficial partners or not. That was incredibly rude and he should have at least knocked before he followed Phee inside.

“You see Gavin? People tend to worry when their loved ones are missing for long periods of time,” Phee says very smugly and Gavin sniffs as angrily as he can. While 900 feels even more out of place and Mamba ignores them all to go explore a suspicious lump on the floor.

The lump, it turns out, is a raggedy orange cat that mrows at her cooly and licks her snout.

“I can leave if you’d prefer, Detective,” 900 offers, hoping a hasty retreat will diffuse the situation he seems to have caused. But Gavin snorts, entirely too snotty and mucus laden for comfort, and shakes his head. The orange cat happily climbs onto Mamba’s back and Mamba happily lets it.

“Nah, you can stay, might as well,” Gavin sighs, and rolls his eyes, and coughs into his sleeve.

* * *

The RT600’s name is Phoebe, Phoebe Kamski, and she is one of Elijah Kamski’s personal models from as far back as when he worked at Cyberlife. She is also one of his dearest friends and a deviant and has been for a long time. RK900 doesn’t remember her from Connor’s memories, except that he does.

A blond RT in a red pool, talking with another RT while Connor held a gun to their original’s head, goaded and heckled by Kamski himself. Connor hadn’t shot that Chloe, _the_ Chloe, and Phoebe was grateful for that. She tells RK900 that via a ping as she’s leaving and that she’s very glad Connor found himself. She hopes he will too.

And Gavin explains after she’s gone, that she’s one of his brother’s partners, yes like that. Her and Irene (the other RT) and the original Chloe, all three of them had deviated way back who fucking knows when and they’d all stayed. Even though Elijah’d given them the option to leave whenever they wanted, even though they could go wherever they pleased.

All three RTs stayed with his batshit brother because they _loved_ him, and if Gavin’s expression reads more wistfully than of feigned disgust as he says it, then RK900 doesn’t mention it. He mentions Gavin’s temperature instead, and his need to drink some more fluids, and where he’d gotten his scruffy cat.

The cat’s name is Sir Basard von Fucka You, Asshole for short, and she was a stray that had crawled up under Gavin’s car one night and he’d never had the heart to shoo her away. She’s a monster who knows not what love be, Gavin swears, while holding her in his lap and gently petting her belly.

And he was gonna call a doctor but he misdialled and got Elijah instead, and Elijah decided to send over one of his wives instead of an actual doctor because Phoebe was better than a doctor anyway. And this and that and 900 smiles as he listens to Gavin’s half-feverish rambling while he makes a dinner Gavin probably won’t throw back up.

The kitchen is stocked, perfectly stocked with fresh vegetables and fresh meat and newly bought bags of various grains. Phoebe’s work perhaps because he’s never seen Gavin eat this healthily at the station, usually it was cup noodles on stakeouts or tacos from the one place he loved, or Tina would take pity and bring him a sandwich from chicken feed. Nothing like the fresh watercress and vitamin water chilling in the crisper, but 900 is grateful for the options.

Gavin eats half the pasta on his plate and a quarter of the steamed vegetables, pushing around the broccoli and dangling it over Asshole’s nose until she takes a bite. A bite is all she gives him before wandering off to lay on Mamba again and a single broccoli stem is all 900 gets Gavin to eat before he declares dinner over.

Which is when RK900 says he’ll take his leave, to let Gavin get some rest and hopefully be well again by tomorrow. Though if he isn’t, please call and RK900 would come over again.

Except, Gavin says no. Except Gavin says wait, do they really have to go? It was already late and it’d be a good fifteen-minute walk back to their apartment, in the dark too. There was a guest room, if 900 wanted, with a charging port, because Phoebe had serviced the thing when she stopped by. Gavin would never use the damn thing but he had one and 900 was welcome to use it.

And RK900 considers the offer. He’s never spent the night at another person’s home before, Hank and Connor are not included, but he’s never heard Gavin so very genuine either. Lowering his walls, dropping off his Pit Bull grit, Gavin is asking for something and 900 is free to deny him, if that’s easier.

But it’s so much easier to stay. Stay and see Gavin’s shoulders sag, relieved, when 900 closes the door and walks back to the living room. Stay and join Gavin on the couch, carving out his own spot between all the pillows and blankets that Caesar wishes he had. Stay and watch a truly terrible 10’s horror film about a possessed doll and the fight against evil.

It’s so much easier to stay and be a friend.

* * *

June bleeds into July haemorrhages into August and Markus is inviting Connor to Jericho for a very important gala. One where the President will be visiting the machine city, one where various foreign dignitaries and ambassadors and politicians will be in attendance. Connor has to be there, his roles as both a revolutionary during the android fight for life and one of Cyberlife’s most advanced models practically sews him into his “ _monkey suit_ ”.

Markus himself comes to the house to deliver Connor’s invitation and provide a rundown of the program schedule, as well as guest list. Hank is the one that answers the door, yells that someone’s there for Connor, and promptly wanders out into the backyard with Sumo. RK900 is the one that spies Markus through the blinds and makes his way (quickly) into the back with Mamba.

Connor is the one left to talk with Markus in the privacy of his room for a total of three hours and eighteen minutes. And the one to let out the world’s weariest sigh after Markus leaves before asking Hank to be his plus one to the world’s very first android hosted gala. Sumo is the one who benefits when Hank jerks so hard that he spills his cheezits.

“And why the fuck are _we_ here?” Gavin hisses, under his breath and in the corner, away from the milling crowd and scowling into his tepid punch.

Off in the middle of the room, Markus is entertaining a group of ambassadors, giving them what is undoubtedly an impassioned speech about sentience and the beauty of life. At a table, Connor is deep in conversation with a Chinese dignitary, conversing with her in perfect Mandarin while Hank focuses on his thirium blue cocktail (with zero liquor). Even Elijah is there, one of his very few and far between public outings; he’s dancing with one of his RTs (Irene) while the other two (Chloe and Phoebe) dance together.

“We, Gavin, are the security detail provided by the good city of Detroit in a show of solidarity with our android population,” 900 parrots off, and finishes his thirium. He would have preferred putting in overtime at the precinct or accompanying Tina ring shopping again. Neither activities being anywhere close to his idea of a good time, but either would have been better than this gala.

Which, the event itself was fine, there was no arguing that. The atmosphere had been impeccably crafted and the mood held aloft by the live orchestra hidden away behind hologram plants and butterflies. The speeches given by various persons of interest had been heartfelt enough, if repetitive, and the speech given by Markus had been…moving, but none of that really made up for the tedium of security detail.

Gavin and him, along with a baker’s dozen more of Detroit’s finest, had been volunteered to supervise the affair, as a local contingent. There were countless (fifteen) other security teams on standby, constantly patrolling the venue, keeping open and closed lines of communication. Truly, the police force representatives were there for just that, to represent.

They were there, all dressed in dark colours and shining badges to remind the good people that Detroit cared about its androids. Please never mind that the police force had been the first on several deviant cases and had killed a significant percentage of early stage deviants. Also never mind that Connor, the deviant hunter, had been assigned to the police force in order to utilise their deviant hunting and neutralisation strategies.

The police cared about androids now, just as they cared about all the good people and model minorities of the city.

“I’m sleeping for a week after this shit, ‘s worse than Lijah’s graduation,” Gavin sneers, and snatches an overly elaborate cupcake off the desert table they just so happen to be standing next to. And have been standing next to for the last half hour. How odd.

Since their visit to the field, to watch the fireworks, Gavin has been much more open about his life. About his brother, Elijah Kamski, and their shared father that was an absolute prick and don’t never forget that 900. About Asshole the cat who was the dumbest cat he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting and whom he loved very, very much. And even about his mother, who’d raised him and wanted very much for him to make something of himself and died of cancer fifteen years ago.

900 also now knows that Gavin has a voracious sweet tooth that can only be calmed by the amount of sugar that would give a horse a heart attack and the beautifully put together cupcake is only his sixth of the night. Sugar petals snap under Gavin’s teeth, frosting smears across his lips, and gooey caramel oozes out the centre, completing the red, yellow, blue theme of the pastry.

Of the night really. Red, yellow, blue, the colours androids had come to see as their own. Blue most heavily, yellow still common, red as they all deviated. Markus’ suit was blue, matching his eye, and North’s dress was red, matching her hair. The flower in Connor’s button hole was gold and his LED styled cufflinks cycled yellow most often.

The humans of the gala had chosen whatever colour suited them best, green or orange, purple or silver. There’d been no official dress code, beyond the overly formal expectations, but somehow it had all worked out. The closest humans got to the colours of androids were faded away pastels of it, cotton candy pinks or washed out sky blues.

The androids though, they were all decked out in the richest, most vibrant versions of their colours that could be found. Royal blue and sunflower mellow, blood red and ruby red and sapphire blues and glitter gold yellow. Androids flitted and fluttered around the venue like particularly well painted butterflies, and RK900 thinks they look wonderful, beautiful, make something in his chest squeeze with deviant joy.

And he would still have rather seen the gala from the comfort of his home or on the screen of a patrol car. He’s found that he does not enjoy large crowds of people, or rather, large crowds of people he cannot retreat from. He’s expected to be on high alert here, and he is, but it is taxing.

A man twelve feet to his left is passing gas, a woman directly opposite him is sweating, a WR model is cycling through another round of thirium, and a dozen more people are doing a dozen more things and RK900 most keep note of them. Though there’s no reason for him to be there, no reason for Gavin to be there, except that Connor had asked.

Except that Connor had come to him after Markus’ visit, frowning and cycling yellow, and asked both Hank and RK900 to please accompany him to the android gala. Because it would be his first event of this type, he’d told Hank. Because he wasn’t sure he could handle it by himself, he’d interfaced that night.

However, judging by the general pleasant atmosphere and the longwinded conversations Connor’s been able to hold, the night hasn’t gone terribly. There haven’t been any international incidents and Connor hasn’t defenestrated anyone, an actual concern he’d had earlier this afternoon.

“ _What if I lose my temper and yeet a bigot out a window?_ ” had been Connor’s exact phrasing, and Hank had laughed so hard they’d almost missed their car.

RK900 is…glad his predecessor has done so well, proven him social protocols being worth the disgusting amount of money and manpower that’d gone into them. Of course he’s glad Connor hasn’t had any kind of unpleasant experience, but that doesn’t mean he appreciates standing by the side dressed in dour black. Not red, not blue, not yellow, but by his choice at least.

Fowler had suggested blue, to match the DPD and his eyes. Hank had said why not red? Bring out that sour frown he was always wearing. Chris had suggested yellow because he just wanted to see 900 in yellow. And Gavin had said, wear whatever the fuck you want, he was personally going in black and fuck Fowler if he even _mentioned_ the dress uniform.

Incidentally, Gavin had also said black brought out the ice cold of 900’s eyes and he looked good in a turtleneck, so he didn’t feel too very much out of place. Even though he was. An android activated after the revolution, an android who’d never known what program and protocol bondage was, an android who couldn’t settle himself into the neat little space Jericho had made for itself.

“Hey, going for a smoke, you in?” Gavin asked, after the cupcake was gone and he’d licked the sugar from his lips.

Technically RK900 was supposed to stay within visual sight of the venue, to be best prepared if something went wrong but he was bored.

“Sure,” he says, flat and apathetic but Gavin winks (understanding) and leads the way through the gala venue and out into the fresh summer night. Where the pollution tinge keeps the stars blurred and the blare of city life is ever present, particularly at eleven on a Saturday night.

Gavin wastes no time sparking up, cupping his palm around the tip of the cigarette, and the flicker off his lighter tinges his eyes silver. It also throws Gavin’s scar in sharp relief, the one edging slash across his nose, clearly the place it had been broken once, twice, multiple times? The fire even catches the scar that’s never on display, the one Gavin hides under a fall of hair and tinge of foundation.

Sometimes Gavin forgets it, too rushed out the door and to work, too dead tired from a long case, and 900 sees it. Well, he never misses it because foundation doesn’t fool his scanner, but he knows better than to mention that. Gavin hides the ragged, jagged, ripped edge scar for a reason, one that RK900 will not pry into.

Connor might have, asked a personal question and been personally bodychecked into a wall, but 900 knows better. And by the time Gavin’s sucking down a welcome lungful of nicotine, the brief smatter of light is gone and 900 can focus on other things. The set of Gavin’s shoulders perhaps?

Relaxing increment by increment, standing further at ease the longer he’s away from the crowd and chatter. Though Gavin has no problem with crowds, so perhaps it’s the nature of this crowd. High society and global elites, the type of people a Michigan detective never would’ve had any reason to meet. Except for one glaring exception of course.

“Y’know, first time I met Connor, I punched him in the gut and he went down,” Gavin says, offhandedly, seemingly preoccupied with the holo-displays set along the entrance path. Some are of android made art pieces, some are stills of that one revolutionary week, a few commemorate the dead.

900 watches them cycle as Gavin searches for his words. 900 thinks of them as he stands with his human partner in the balmy night air. He has no attachment to Jericho, no reason to care beyond what it symbolises, and he _doesn’t_. He…doesn’t care about Jericho the way an android should, he cares about the work they do and he cares about the part they played in his own freedom but the people here.

North and Josh and Simon and Markus himself, they are all so detached from his reality. RK900, no other name to his existence, is as out of place in that gala as Gavin is. He even has something like a brother that is too involved, too well-suited, too perfectly made for it. Connor and Elijah, RK900 and Gavin, two highly unlikely foils, but foils just the same

“Sometimes I wanna blame everything on Lijah, it’d be real fucking easy,” Gavin says, and 900 nods. He isn’t quite sure which “ _everything_ ” Gavin is referring too, but he does understand the compulsion.

Wouldn’t it be easy to blame his own social ineptitude on his lack of a social module? Wouldn’t it be so much easier to resort to violence immediately and bypass negotiation tactics entirely? Nobody would question him, he was designed as a weapon, he would only be following his protocols, those self-regulated “ _instincts_ ”.

For Gavin, it would be so very easy to lay his hatred of androids at his estranged brother’s feet. Because there is no doubt that he and Elijah are estranged. How easy it would be for him to simply say, “ _I hate androids because I hate the man that made them_ ” and walk away from the rest of the conversation.

So easy, too easy.

“Used to be so fucking easy. Blamed him for dad treating _me_ like the fuck up, blamed him for being a rich bitch with a ego bigger’n the sun,” Gavin mutters around a stream of smoke. He turns away to smoke, away from 900 as is polite, but traces of nicotine and phenol still activate his forensic programs.

“I even _fucking_ blamed him for Holston,” Gavin growls, grit teeth and peeled back lips. Pit Bull fury and Pit Bull regret, there again and always.

“Blamed Hank more, cause it was his call, but I just… _fuck_ ,” Gavin sighs, huffing too hard, blinking too hard. In the semi-dark of the night, it is particularly easy for RK900 to pretend he does not detect the extra moisture in his partner’s eyes.

Detective Holston is a mystery, one so easily solvable it’s almost humour that 900 hasn’t yet but he refuses to look. Daniel Holston died in the line of action, three years ago soon to the day. Daniel Holston was Gavin Reed’s partner for three years, again almost to the day, and hadn’t been after a specific, traumatic incident that had wiped six months off Gavin’s record.

They had been one of the precinct’s best teams, both driven, both passionate, both forcing the extra-mile to get a case closed and justice hammered down. They’d been incredible for three years, and then they hadn’t been.

“May I try that?” 900 asks, quietly, after Gavin not so secretly wipes his not so dry eyes and the mood between them loses that charged unease.

The incredulous, mouth-hung open look he gets in return for his question is well worth the question itself. He only meant to shock Gavin out of his bad memories but RK900 suddenly does want to try that.

“You wanna fucking—yeah, sure!” and Gavin holds out the cigarette, still wide eyed, still surprised.

900 considers it, the brown filter and burning cherry. Gavin smokes a half pack a day, a quarter if it’s particularly good and the coffee is decidedly better. On bad days he smokes an entire pack, chaining them together during his breaks so he can soothe the nicotine itch that rises with stress. 900 has seen many cigarettes, analysed most with no reason, and has never been very curious about them.

“Thank you,” he isn’t sure why he is now, if it’s something about the night and how little he belongs to it, or just a deviant compulsion to try a self-destructive habit. Not that his filtration system would suffer from a single cigarette, it would take six hundred and eighty-nine thousand packs to wear through his lungs, but it was the thought that counted?

RK900 takes the cigarette and wraps his lips around it, already analysing the new data; the cigarette composition, the tobacco content, the breakdown of Gavin’s saliva. Then he files all of that way and takes a drag off of it.

And he, cocks his head, blinks, considers. And lets it out, one perfect stream of smoke.

“Shit, you did it,” Gavin snorts, grinning bigger than RK900 has ever seen.

“Nah, keep it, proof I’m a shit influence on the youth,” Gavin chuckles, and doesn’t pull out another, and doesn’t for the entire rest of time they’re outside.

* * *

Androids do not have birthdays in the same sense that humans do. Judging by activation date is…unspecific, particularly in the case of prototype models, such as Connor. Prototype designations were built to skip between shell bodies with memory uploads and hardware updates between iterations. In Connors very specific case, he is one in a long line of RK800 models that were technically activated in 2033.

Thus, when August rolls around, Hank corners RK900 in the breakroom while Connor is directing a rookie through forensic processing. Though, perhaps corner is too harsh a word. Hank discretely closes the door of the empty breakroom, sidles in close and asks, “When the fuck is Connor’s birthday?”

Then gets progressively more and more confused, and markedly angrier, as RK900 explains that the RK800 series did not have a specific activation date i.e. birthday, as Connor had “died” many times and been soft-activated even more. Connor, as a prototype, had been activated several times during alpha and beta testing, and yes his consciousness had been intact each time. He had also switched bodies several times, damaged and destroyed in his role of deviant hunter.

“When did the **_current_** Connor body get fucking activated?” Hank snarls after the explanation, and taking the time to pinch his nose and count to ten with his eyes screwed firmly shut.

“August 18th, 2038,” RK900 answers succinctly, “it was a warm Wednesday, and the twenty-fifth reported deviant case had just been filed to the DPD.”

So August 18th is the date Hank chooses as Connor’s birthday, and RK900, as the closest thing Connor has to a blood relative, gets roped into the preparation. Which includes; interrogating Connor with the utmost subtlety as to his favourite activities and places to visit. Which includes; keeping Connor out on longer and longer walks while Hank finds places to hide the birthday decorations.

Which includes; shutting down an entire subsection of memory when Connor asks to interface after a particularly brutal crime scene involving humans relieved of marketable organs and androids drained of thirium. The latter task is the hardest, particularly considering the desolate expression on his predecessor’s face, but RK900 manages. Hank wants to surprise Connor because a first birthday should be something worth remembering, there should be presents and friends and a cake that gets smashed.

And, because RK900 was not the expert on birthday rituals, he deferred to Hank and did as asked. Though that was particularly hard with an android designed to pick up on the slightest deviance from the norm. Such as Hank running off an entire fifteen minutes before his lunch break with no explanation. Or Gavin being particularly civil the entire week leading up to the eighteenth.

“900, I think something’s wrong, do you think Hank’s sick and trying to hide it?” Connor had asked on the twelfth, LED yellow.

“Nines, I think Gavin might be transferring out of our department, he’s acting far too nice,” Connor had hissed on the fourteenth, in the back corner of the break room, which had been empty.

From: RK800. Connor: If I am fired, which data suggests I may be, please water my cactus.

Is a secured message along their RK designated, closed circuited line on the seventeenth. In the middle of the night, after Hank’s gone to sleep and RK900 is ten minutes into stasis.

He’s particularly glad he receives the message in the morning, well into the eighteenth because he isn’t sure he would have been able to hold out after that. As it is, RK900 is more than capable of meeting Connor on the ground floor of the precinct, as arranged by Hank, and leading him up to the office with a dour silence.

“RK800, please accept my sincerest condolences,” 900 says as the elevator dings their floor.

And Connor’s alarm is particularly endearing, though it would not be otherwise.

“You have aged. You are old,” and steps aside as Hank strides forth to shout,

“Happy 1st Birthday Connor!”

* * *

“So when’s your birthday?” Tina asks later, at the actual party Hank planned so meticulously.

“I want it to be a surprise,” he answers blandly, fixing the rose tucked behind his ear.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” she laughs, as he grins, and loops their arms together to take another stroll of the park.

Or rather, botanical garden, public but rented out for the afternoon by the “ _Anderson Family_ ”. Hank had thought a night clubbing would have been more Connor’s style, he certainly frequented enough of them when he had the time, but no, RK900 had insisted on the garden. The fabric flowers for the entire party had also been his idea, an eco-friendly way of fulfilling one of Connor’s more wistful wants.

RK900 had not been programmed with a minder, his development had not reached that stage of testing, but he knew of Amanda. Connor thought of her often, even after she had tried so hard to keep him locked in his mission parameters. He didn’t quite miss her, but he did miss the zen garden, the flowers.

The Detroit botanical garden has a different layout, different flowers in bloom, there’s more life in it, but there is a pond just large enough to go boating in. Tina waves, over exaggerated and enthusiastic, at Connor as he rows Hank around the pond. The Lieutenant is distinctly two shades too pale, but he grins big and gives a thumbs up when Connor turns back to him.

“Gavin has said it approximately 184 times since our meeting,” 900 hums as they trot across a bridge. A wooden bridge with vined flowers grown along the railing and dripping down into the water, it’s quite lovely.

And the garden is quite lovely, with its picturesque gazebo and carefully maintained benches scattered around. The paths blend seamlessly, bordered by tiny white flowers and swaying oaks, it’s almost easy to ignore the solar lights planted at strategic points along them. Even the stage being set up further away is unobtrusive, fitting into the surroundings almost seamlessly.

The band, a heavy metal one, is set to play at eight, plenty of time for the scattered party of officers and tagging along loved ones to digest the cake and cycle their thirium.

“Only? Jeeze, I guess he’s getting soft in his old age,” Tina scoffs, and fixes her own flower headband. Violets and lilacs, the purple matches the brown of her eyes.

And they take a left at a fountain, one of many, this one decorated with fish that bob with the water. Tropical fish to be specific, to match the season, and Tina sighs.

“I’m thinking about asking her Saturday,” she whispers, though she and RK900 are the only people in this part of the garden. Far enough to not be easily overheard, far enough that only Connor could, and he isn’t paying attention.

But, 900 takes her cue and tilts down to her, lowers his voice as he asks, “Of course she’ll say yes, Leah loves you.”

He says it as a fact, something obvious, because it is. Leah Sanchez, Tina’s girlfriend of nearly six years, loves her and of that RK900 has no doubt. Their easy affection speaks of their years together, how comfortable they are with each other. The way Tina smiles when Leah texts her at work, the way Leah hugs Tina after a long shift, just a bit tighter and longer, relaxing into the closeness of the other woman.

RK900 will not claim to be an expert on human romance, or any type of romance, but he believes his amateur observations are sufficient. Leah loves Tina, Tina loves Leah, and there is no reason for Tina to have waited all these months, doubting her ring choice, doubting her proposal plan, doubting-doubting-doubting.

Even now, as they speak privately, Tina reads of stress and anxiety.

“Yeah but what if she doesn’t wanna do the marriage thing? I mean, we’ve talked about it but was that ha ha just kidding or serious talk? I don’t know RK, and what if she says no?” Tina rambles to herself, reaching up to fiddle with her flower crown. Reaching up to tug on her hair, reaching up to sigh and drag a hand down her face.

“I’d have to get a transfer to fucking Texas or something, I’d have to leave the country, and who’d smack the Jägermeister out of Gavin’s hand then, huh? Last time we drank that shit, we nearly _died_ RK, _we nearly **died**_ ,” Tina hisses, nose wrinkling with the memory of Jägermeister and an apparent near death experience.

And, despite his high-tech design and development, despite his formidable combat arsenal and forensics database, RK900 knows when he’s out of his depth. He sends the mayday ping as he takes Tina by the shoulders and shakes her, not very hard, but enough to stop her sloppily made plans of becoming a shepherd in New Zealand.

“Tina, you are allergic to wool, you could never be a shepherd,” 900 reminds her, as she blinks big and wide and terrified at him. Terrified of Leah saying no to her proposal, not at him shaking her.

“And Leah hates New Zealand, you would never move there,” he adds, and she nods along, then she shakes her head.

“No, see! That’s why it’s perfect! She’d never guess it and I’d never have to face her again,” Tina explains and pulls away from his grip.

And then she’s walking in circles, throwing her hands in the air, fiddling with her hair, and telling him the exact cost of shepherd start-ups in New Zealand, sans government assistance. Though with assistance it was far more viable, she assures him, and she could access that assistance no problem. She’d just have to fake a few documents and lie about her family history of farming but she could totally pull it off.

RK900 watches her helplessly, nodding in the right places and steering her away from the muddy pond banks. Backup is coming, as she speculates on first quarter profits inclusive of veterinarian fees and machinery cost. Backup is coming, he tells himself as she launches into an impassioned speech about the worth of a life and how humans were all just salt of the earth, she’d really only be going back to herself.

“T, what the fuck?” Gavin snaps, eyes narrowed, brow cocked, flower crown standing a proud orange in his hair. At his feet Mamba (900’s salvation) is chewing on a block of super chilled thirium, an expensive treat 900 wasn’t sure where Gavin had gotten. He certainly hadn’t bought it, and he consciously shut down that thought.

Instead, RK900 steps away and lets Gavin step in, cake held aloft, eyes rolling.

“I’m moving to New Zealand Gav, I swear. I’m gonna raise sheep and kiwis,” and Tina launches into her justification of moving, instead of simply proposing to her girlfriend.

900 wanders away as Gavin launches into his counter argument of “ _Stop being fucking stupid Chen, that woman’d say yes in a fucking heartbeat, grow some balls for fucks sake_.”

He leaves them to it, as he’s done every time Tina’s caught him alone to talk about her proposal. She’s run through ten different scenarios with him, begging him to engage his preconstruction protocol to see how they’d all turn out. Proposing on top of a ferris wheel, where they’d first met, or proposing after a homemade dinner, or proposing at a fancy restaurant, or on Leah’s birthday, or her _own_ birthday.

Personally, RK900 thinks Tina’s overthinking everything. In his (limited) experience, proposals are best accepted when they come from a place of love and consideration. Any of Tina’s proposed proposals would be acceptable, Leah would love them and say yes. Then they could begin planning for the wedding, and be married, and share the rest of their years together in blissful matrimony. Ideally.

He knows that marriages can break down and end in terrible heartache, but he prefers to wish Tina and Leah well.

RK900 stops at the bridge, stands and looks around at the scattered party. Hank set this all up for Connor, to give him something to remember, a show of affection genuine in its depths. There was a cake, for the humans, and a congealed lump of thirium for the androids, the best that could be done and the effort was appreciated.

There’d been presents, generic things like novelty ties and socks, Gavin had gotten Connor a custom mug “ _Get me a Coffee (dipshit)_ ”, Hank had done up the whole party and RK900 had assured him that was gift enough. Pointedly perhaps, with a glare and a threat of telling Connor about the surprise if Hank tried to spend anything more on this. Hank had only backed down after the threat of a slip, and wasn’t that another show of love?

Yes, he thinks so. Him, out on the pond with Connor, despite his discomfort, is love too.

Chris, across the garden, holding his son’s hands and helping him walk, is love. Markus, North, Simon, and Josh sitting in the gazebo, sitting tangled together and interfacing, is love. Fowler laughing with his daughter, his daughter with her android girlfriend, all of it is love.

RK900 cocks his head as he watches it all, takes it in. So much love, so many types of it. Human or android, what’s the difference? There is none, and he smiles, small and secret to himself.

And, fifteen minutes later, when Gavin and Tina come wandering back, he shares his smile with them too. Easily accepts Tina’s flustered apology and lets her loop their arms together again. Easily reaches out to fix the flowers on Gavin’s head, and lets Mamba lead all three of them back to the main part of the garden.

* * *

Of course, crime doesn’t end because of the season change, nor does the level of violence deescalate. Crime is systemic and until the state of the system is dealt with, crime will continue to exist, RK900 understands this intimately. As such, he isn’t quite so surprised to be woken in the middle of the night, in the middle of the week, despite being very much off the clock.

It’s routine to dress in the dark and click his tongue for Mamba to follow him down to the ground floor to wait for Gavin. To greet his partner and offer a thermos of hot tea, not coffee, and have Gavin accept it just to have something to drink.

Crime scenes remain the same, blood and gore and avoidable brutality, and RK900 does _not_ get used to that. Knows he should, and knows he could if he activated the right protocols, but he does not. He lets himself remain unaccustomed to the viscera, lets himself be that little bit more…human as he catalogues his latest scene.

A shootout, Red Ice deals infringing on each other’s turf. There are four bodies to catalogue and assess, all dead by gunshot wounds to the body. One man’s head is blown away entirely, another lays slumped against a wall, guts spilling into his slack hands. Neither carry any of form of identification, no tattoos, and their faces are too slashed to bother running through the database.

“Perps had enough fucking time to do a hack job before we got called, Gilter gang maybe?” Gavin mutters, squatting down with a sneer, and inspecting the headless corpse. He doesn’t touch, doesn’t make an attempt to, but he does mime blowing the man’s head off himself. Two fingers and a thumb trigger, RK900 considers pointing out the inappropriateness of the action but resists.

Gavin’s methods are unorthodox but they are effective, if making light of death helps him process the case, then RK900 will not comment. And he has two more bodies to process. A man and a woman separate from each other and the other two bodies.

One, the woman, is curled against a dumpster with a bullet to the chest, and her throat slashed and left to bleed. Her face is also slashed and unidentifiable. The man though, RK900 stops at, and engages his preconstruction software. Because, the man, is flat out on the ground, laying on his back, with one hand half raising to his head.

The obvious cause of death is the gunshot wound between his cut out eyes but RK900 frowns as he runs scenarios. Why would the man be on his back? And he crouches as he considers, leaning in close to inspect the evidence.

“Find anything interesting tin can?” Gavin sighs as he walks up, and 900 nods, still staring and preconstructing.

The woman’s throat had been slashed prior to the bullet, the bullet had been insurance, as was common in gang disputes. So then, what had the bullet been left to insure for this man? RK900 ignores Gavin’s irritated grumble, about how late it is and how much he’d like to get this wrapped up and him back in bed.

He leans in closer, closer, and follows the path of that one reaching hand, and—

“I believe the last victim was strangled prior to being shot,” RK900 reports, cataloguing the bruising around the victim’s throat, mostly covered by the blood spray post mortem.

And he turns to Gavin, to get his partner’s input, and stops. Because Gavin is staring, wide eyed and vacant. Because Gavin is staring, heartbeat too quick and hard. Because Gavin is grabbing at his own pant leg (just below the femoral artery), teeth clenched and nostrils flared.

“Gavin?” RK900 asks before his partner is turning on his heel and stalking away from their crime scene. Getting into his car and driving away. Leaving RK900 to stare after his retreating back in the dark of the night.

* * *

Gavin doesn’t come to work that day, or the next, or even the one after that. RK900 asks, because he’s one of three who would, and Captain Fowler tells him Gavin’s taken some sick leave, rest of the week at least. And the captain frowns as he says it, lips pursed tight, eyes narrowed dissatisfied, but there’s nothing he can do about Gavin not coming out to work.

RK900 tries to internalise that information, the understanding that Gavin is probably (finally) taking some much needed vacation time. That this came out of the veritable blue with no build up or suggestion is inconsequential, that Gavin didn’t even say goodbye that night is not important. Clearly he needs a mental health break, RK900 will understand.

Except that, Gavin doesn’t respond to any of the sporadic texts he sends over the course of the week. Not the overly polite good morning text, not the more laid back “how are you” the second day of his absence, not even the “im bored. pls repsond” which he thought Gavin would’ve jumped at. The improper grammar was an easy target, perfectly open for attack, but, nothing.

Gavin, essentially, falls off the grid without a word and RK900 finds himself at a loss in the aftermath. Where is Gavin? Home, supposedly. Why? He doesn’t know. Fowler does, most likely, and Tina may, but neither of them are who catches him before he heads up to the office on the fifth consecutive day of Gavin’s absence.

Instead, it’s Hank calling after him and asking him to wait in the near empty lobby. Instead it’s Hank sighing, heavy and world weary and asking him to move to the side, away from the door in case anyone does walk in.

“Connor told me you been worrying about Gavin,” Hank says, an impossible understatement of course, but 900 says nothing. He only inclines his head, prompts the Lieutenant to keep talking.

“Fuck’s—,” a pause to sigh, to shake his head and look away, “Listen son, Gavin didn’t always used to work alone, y’know? He had a partner, and so did I, but something ah…there was an incident.”

And the way Hank says _incident_ , full of self-loathing and bitterness, full of the kind of hatred Connor had witnessed first-hand. It makes RK900 frown, makes him do a building wide search for RK800, in case Hank needs his pseudo-son’s assistance. Or the rest of the day off or—

“I was…I made a bad call, with a couple deviants, and it got Reed and Holston in the shit,” Hank mutters, still not looking 900 in the face, still with that self-loathing.

“Reed and Holston were on scene, tracking ‘em, back then we never thought androids could uh—well, me and Martinez showed up and I had the chance to call Reed back. I was the senior officer and Reed was a shithead but he listened to orders back then, shoulda fucking called them back, but I didn’t. Thought we could take the thing in, pick its brain for answers or whatever the fuck,” Hank laughs, barking sharp and without a drop of humour.

“Cept, that didn’t work out too great. Reed and Holston cornered the deviants, two of ‘em, and radioed it, Martinez wanted to wait for backup but I just took off. I wanted in on the action, maybe a chance to rough up a plastic. But, we all forgot androids were strong, real fucking strong.

One of the fuckers got me coming in, wrestled my piece from me easy as you fuckin’ please, and threw my ass through a wall. The other one jumped Reed, got him down, choking him and banging his head against the floor. The one with my gun turned and…” Hank falters, takes a second to breathe long and slow through his nose.

“The one with my gun turned and got Holston between the eyes, just _pow!_ right there, and he went down. Then it turned on Reed, was gonna take him out too just because…just because it fucking could I think? First bit of freedom the damn thing gets and it decides to kill for fun, couldn’t even blame it.”

Another stop, to sigh, to look out across the empty lobby, to lick his lips and continue, “Martinez comes up then and gets it in the back of the neck, in that port? Then he gets the one on Reed, scatter shot cuz it was fucking moving so much, so clips Reed too. Deviant got away though, jumped out a window and fucking ran.

Martinez got us out, carried Reed, helped me, but it was too late for Holston. He was dead before the hit the ground,” Hank…says, and RK900 listens and he…nods.

He processes the words, and understand that they have been said, what information they have conveyed, and just nods. At his side Mamba wuffs at him, and he blinks, at her, at Hank, at the alert blinking in the distant corner of his eye.

Stress Level: 53%  
Stress Level: 58%  
Stress Level: 62%   
Warning: Rapid increase in Stress Level. Please seek assistance.

RK900 breathes, takes in a deeper breath than his components need, holds, and releases. He is feeling an emotion, perhaps many, perhaps more than he has in his entire deviant life, and requires time to carefully pick them apart. However, his shift starts in 8 minutes, and he has several open cases concerning android hate crimes and ongoing scrambler use in said hate crimes.

As such.

“Thank you for this information, Lieutenant, it is greatly appreciated,” RK900 says, nodding once more, about facing, and striding off across the still empty lounge.

And for the rest of the day, RK900 does not think about his partner. He finishes reports, he requests files and criminal profiles, he even talks to Connor as he usually would. He smiles, he hums, he interacts in all the usual ways, and ignores all of the sly looks Hank thinks he doesn’t notice.

He ignores how empty Gavin’s desk is, and how empty the precinct seems without him. He feeds Mamba her requisite number of treats, and surreptitiously accounts for the ones Gavin would regularly give her. He talks with other detectives, and holds a text conversation with Tina, and even agrees to an after work outing with several rookies.

He does not think of Gavin even after he gets home later that night, letting himself into his dark apartment and not bothering to turn on a single light. 900 stands, by his plant framed window, and stares out at the quiet street. He does not think while he does, only enjoys the view.

Only listens to the sounds of the apartment at large; the families settling down for bed, the couples conversing over a late dinner, Mrs Singh next door checking her blood pressure. RK900 lets himself exist in this moment, and when his internal clock registers two hours of prolonged motionlessness, he turns away from the window and goes to bed.

* * *

Sunday morning RK900 is woken by Connor banging on his door, something that very rarely happens because Connor prefers to meet elsewhere. Cafes, parks, Hank’s house, malls, not usually 900’s tiny apartment, but here Connor is regardless.

“RK900, please open the door, we have places to be!” Connor calls, and 900 shares a look with Mamba before disconnecting from his charging port. He specifically takes 4.2 seconds longer than usual to cross the room and throw open the door. An entirely unnecessary action considering Connor has a key to the apartment, which he has utilised on his few past visits.

A key that he cheekily spins on his finger as he stands in the doorway, fist raised in mid-knock. RK900 takes one look at the completed picture, Connor’s grin, his stolen shirt, and utterly terrible board shorts, and contemplates simply slamming the door. It wouldn’t deter Connor in the slightest, but it would give him 2.49 seconds to slip out the fire escape and away from whatever insane outing Connor had planned for them.

If he acted quicker, and ordered Mamba to stall him, 900 could have 3.12 seconds.

“Good morning, are you ready to shop ‘til you drop?” Connor asks with entirely too much pep and vigour. And RK900 wonders if it’s too late to pretend he already had plans. Hmm, yes possibly, Connor wouldn’t have planned their entire day (which he had undoubtedly done) without consulting 900’s hourly updated calendar of events.

“I’m not, but feel free to lead the way,” 900 sighs, and allows himself to be hustled out the door and down into Hank’s car.

Connor, like himself, was programmed with knowledge of every make and model of commercial vehicle still legally allowed on the roads. They know how to drive, and be good drivers at that, but RK900 still feels the need to strap himself in and press himself all the way back in the seat as Connor starts the Oldsmobile. There is a glint, a manic, need for speed glint that twinkles from Connor’s eyes every time he slides behind a wheel, and RK900 hates it very much. And he rides with Gavin Reed near daily.

This morning, Connor takes the time to check his mirrors before he performs a completely illegal u-turn that burns rubber on the acceleration. They’re shooting off down the road at ten miles over the speed limit and Connor is smiling as serenely as if they were taking a casual stroll.

“We’ll have breakfast at the new puppy café downtown, and then we need to go shopping for clothes. Hank says we should dress in more than the uniform and his stolen clothes,” Connor blathers so easily, as though he isn’t zipping in and out of automated traffic in a completely manual car.

They overtake an auto-cab with six millimetres of clearance. They tailgate another until it hits its turn off. They switch three lanes without a single turn signal, and Connor smiles through it all. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and Connor continues telling him about the puppy café they’re going to. That the puppies aren’t actually all puppies, there are dogs of all ages and breeds there, and there are quite a few up for adoption.

The café had a standing agreement with a local pound to help acclimatize the dogs to people and drum up business for the café, Connor explains while sliding past a semi too quick for its collision sensors to trigger. RK900 watches the truck slam brakes in the rearview mirror, then watches it disappear behind another semi as they bob and weave through traffic. Never once being tagged by a traffic cam or speed trap, never once missing a green light.

And if RK900 notices Connor’s LED cycle yellow every time they speed past a traffic regulator, and that some of the red lights change too quickly and some of the traffic cams don’t seem to register, then he files it away as junk data. He knows Connor’s never gotten a speeding ticket in his short, speed demon life, and he knows exactly why that is, but he doesn’t think it’s his place to report it. If he did, he’s sure Connor would report his own entirely illegal hacks of private security cameras during investigations.

Legally or not, they do make it downtown in far less time than 900 is used to and even manage to get a good parking space only five minutes from the café. Yes they end up in front of a discrete sex shop but neither of them mind, and no one would link the car to either of them anyway.

The building they finally end up at is exactly what he would’ve expected from the name “All Dogs Heaven”, from the paw prints painted on the glass to the dog ears worn by all the employees, and several customers. Connor pays for three by the door; a floppy brown for himself, a bright gold for Mamba, and pointy black for 900.

Mamba accepts the ears regally, turning her nose up after they’re on, and joins Connor in staring down RK900 until he puts on his pair. Then, Connor orders him to find a table and disappears somewhere else in the room. Literally there one second and off into the throng and crush of bodies the next, gone too quick for even 900’s tracking software to pick him up.

Which is impressive, and tells him that Connor’s gone straight to the dogs, wherever they might be.

So, he orders two cups of chilled thirium and a bowl of regular via ping, and goes wandering the main room with Mamba for a table. Something in short supply even at nine on a Sunday morning. There were already dozens of people crammed into the renovated warehouse, couples sitting at paw shaped tables, taking selfies with the dog themed décor. Groups of teens squashed together on long bone benches, passing drinks between themselves while playing with leashed dogs.

Ah, and the dogs. At least one per table, all organic, and none purebred. There were mutts with torn ears and blind eyes, soft boofs from three legged dogs, gambolling puppies missing tails and equilibrium. Mamba allows the inquisitive ones to sniff her but stays away from the humans with reaching hands, preferring to sit on 900’s feet as he scans for a table.

It takes approximately 7.3 minutes to find one, off in the corner, against the glass front, and by then their orders are ready. He sends Mamba to save their seats while he wades through the throng of early morning café patrons and their assorted dogs.

“Have a boof-afull day, sir,” the cashier (a VS700) says, with entirely too much cheer and customer service zeal. There’s an almost manic look behind her eyes as she hands over the drinks, and an edge to her voice as she wishes him a good day. RK900 makes sure to tip her generously before he heads back to the tiny table in the corner.

By which time, Connor’s back with an armful of wriggling puppy, a German Shepherd mix with unknown component breeds. The pure golden puppy is missing half its tail and elects to wiggle its entire body to show just how happy it is.

“Her name’s Leo! Because she looks like a little lion,” Connor explains, laughing as little lion Leo squirms and licks his face with all the enthusiasm in her tiny body. And she is little, undersized for a shepherd but larger than a typical mutt, RK900 puts her at six months old, enough time to be full grown but still with all the energy of a puppy.

Mamba wuffs serenely as 900 gives her her bowl, and chuffs at him, sending a ping of “ _grateful, thank, happy_ ”.

“Are you thinking about adopting her? I’m sure Hank would be _delighted_ ,” 900 teases, and distracts Leo with a scritch behind the ear so Connor can drink in peace. Though he doesn’t let her down, keeps her tucked in close to his chest and doesn’t seem to mind her flickering ears.

“No, I asked already, and he said it wouldn’t be fair to Sumo, so I used to go to pounds instead,” Connor shrugs, and yes, RK900 can just bet Connor volunteered his extremely limited down time at pounds. Because his work at the DPD and his ties to Jericho and his ongoing relationship with Hank didn’t eat up enough hours in the day, of course he would find something else to preoccupy himself with.

Although, Connor wouldn’t see volunteering at an animal shelter as work, he loved dogs, and other animals, and probably counted it as relaxation. Which was admirable. Which was just another thing to add to his ever expanding file on RK800. Connor. The predecessor he could never hope to outdo.

RK900 had been designed to be better in every conceivable way, but Cyberlife hadn’t factored in Connor’s overwhelming personality. His kindness, his ruthless nature, his willingness to bend and break rules should it serve him or his flexible moral compass. How _could_ Cyberlife have hoped to account for such singular and spectacular attributes?

They could have worked another ten years, they could have gotten Kamski himself back on the project, but they never could’ve dreamt of coming close. Connor is incredible, and RK900 thinks he should be bitter about that, feel robbed of his purpose, but all he feels is an undeniable warmth behind his pump. Connor is the closest he has to a blood relative, to a…brother. Connor was the one to deviate him, to find him in Cyberlife’s locked away and abandoned workshop, the one to make the call to activate his own successor.

And all RK900 can feel is incredibly fond, almost…loving? Or _is_ this love? The love siblings have for each other, the pride they must feel for one another.

Yes, he thinks it must be.

“Thanks for coming out with me today, 900” Connor says, abruptly and without prompting, suddenly grave despite the puppy licking his cheek. His brown eyes are solemn, his lips are pursed into a neutral line, and RK900 realises Connor is about to ask one of his intrusive, personal questions.

An apologetic, mitigating little smile cracks that austere exterior though, as Connor scritches the puppy under her chin, and cocks his head to the side.

“What is Gavin to you?” Connor asks, and RK900…stalls.

Automatically his database pulls up Detective Gavin Michael Reed’s file, full of all the odds and ends he’s collected on this man. Gavin Reed is his unregistered partner, they work well together. Gavin Reed is a friend, he gives 900 lifts to and from his apartment and doesn’t mind when 900 sends him tediously long lists of names to sort through.

Gavin Reed is a co-worker, one who drinks all of the coffee in the breakroom and buys whole boxes of donuts for the precinct when he feels particularly generous. Gavin Reed is a belligerent acquaintance who never shares personal information on his family or social lives, except on the few occasions that he has, and they are all recorded.

RK900 could say all of those things, or none of those things, because they are not what Gavin is to _him_. Those are roles Gavin has held. Co-worker, office acquaintance, friend, partner; they are roles, not who he is to RK900.

“I am…not sure,” he answers, and it’s as honest as he can be.

And, when Connor reaches his pale white palm on the table, 900 takes it gratefully, and welcomes the interface.

* * *

The rest of the day is spent traipsing from shop to shop in the largest mall in the city. Connor is determined to visit every single clothing store he possibly can and try on as many outfits as will fit him. And, as he was modelled after an attractive human physique, nearly every piece of clothing in most stores _do_ fit him.

RK900, and Mamba, end up sitting outside dressing rooms with piles of clothes folded next to them while Connor puts on his fashion shows. Shirts with terrible prints, things Hank would be proud to call his own, get paired with jeans so tight 900 orders Connor to switch them out in the dressing room for propriety’s sake.

He doesn’t understand _why_ Connor feels the need to display his clothing choices with a flourish and a spin, considering the open channel they have. 900 can see the outfits in the dressing room mirrors as they’re donned, but he supposes his predecessor is allowed his vanity. If this could be considered vanity.

They go to some of the most expensive stores and Connor tries on the most expensive clothes, and they both agree those are uglier than anything worthy of Hank’s closet. They go to stores designed for teenagers and both agree Connor could pull of early 20’s twink with aplomb. If Connor does so happen to buy some of those “ _twink_ ” clothes, then RK900 will not ask where he plans to wear them.

What Connor does in his very scant free time, and who he spends it with, is none of his business until he gets nosey enough to ask. And he almost does when they wander into an alternative fashion store, “ _punk rock_ ” as the sign screams, and Connor picks out leather pants that fit tighter than his own synth skin.

“No, most certainly not,” RK900 says, holding out even under Connor’s most potent puppy eyes, and ensuring the pants are returned to their rack. He is entirely sure Connor’s still purchased the pants somehow and will return for them at a later date, if he hasn’t snuck them into a bag already.

Connor forces him to purchase things for himself too, more than just the stark white shirts he bought in a discount pack and the dress pants that came on sale. Nothing expensive, Connor assures him, just something else. Something with colour? Something of a different material maybe?

RK900 thinks about his now obsolete design protocols, the tactical gear he would’ve been outfitted with, the stark black that would have been and the rough weave. He was designed to look good in clothes like that, if not that perfectly. He was made aesthetically pleasing in general but there were specific aesthetics he was better suited to, naturally.

When they stumble across the eclectic hipster fashioned store sometime around three, after hours and hours of Connor picking through clothes and them lolling around the mall, RK900 almost doesn’t go in. But Connor sees it, spots the racks of dubious fashion, and then there’s no choice. The right choice nevertheless.

Because he finds clothes that are soft, patterns that aren’t very loud or plain ugly, he even finds combat boots lined off under a LED lit shelf. Connor calls him a hipster as soon as he reaches for a plain shirt, the ping full of playful teasing and a vague understanding of the word. Clearly google checked five seconds prior to use but RK900 doesn’t call him on it, mostly because he’s too busy trying on different things.

He thinks he understands then, why Connor chose to give his little fashion shows all day. There was something enjoyable about putting together an entirely new outfit, something he had never been designed to wear but was wearing anyway. Something almost like mischievous satisfaction, rebelling against creation in this one small way.

In the end, he has at least three full outfits and mix-match bits of five more, vintage prints of bands he doesn’t care about, and one shirt printed with gibberish that’s too stupid to pass up. And, in that fae summer way, the sun is still up and shining when they finally exhaust all of the mall’s options. There are tired children being carried by their caretakers, there are teenagers grouped around the now cool parking lot, and weaved through it are androids.

Android children and their android caretakers, android groups gathered at the bus stop or piling into larger vehicles. They’re all chattering just as lively as the humans, smiling as much, laughing and loving, and 900 takes a 360 recording of that.

The entire walk from the mall back to where they’ve parked, the whole short walk gets saved, copied, and backloaded into his offsite memory core. As a reminder, as something to take out on the days his processors are straining and cases are piling up. A reminder to pull out and hold close when the brutality of the world crushes in close and forces him to activate kill protocols and combat simulations.

Break bones, bleed veins. Here is a weapon, use it. Take this gun, shoot it. You are a weapon, you are a machine, and there is no point in arguing that simple fact of existence.

But no, that is wrong, because here is this. Here are humans and androids, each with lives and loves and hopes and dreams.

Here is Connor, his brother in the fullest sense, taking his bags and storing them in the trunk. Asking him if he had a good day. Here is Mamba, his very dearest companion, climbing into the backseat and flopping down into a quick stasis.

Here is a world and here is a life beyond what he was designed for, and RK900 loves it.

* * *

Gavin does not return to work on Monday, he has enough stored sick leave that he doesn’t need to, but RK900 was…he was hoping the five days already spent away would have been enough. Maybe not to fully deal with the resultant trauma response, which was most certainly what Gavin was dealing with, but maybe it was enough time to remember he didn’t have to be alone.

RK900 waits the entire morning, keeping a backdoor channel open with Divya to have eyes on Gavin the second he pulls into the carpark, if he does at all. He does not.

From: PB600. Divya: No sign of Detective Reed

From: PB600. Divya: Sorry, 9s ☹️

Lunchtime comes, and with it a new homicide, low-level, something Gavin would call bottom bunk shit. RK900 reads the file during his “ _lunch break_ ” taking a walk down to the ground floor, then back up again via the stairwell. He has the likely suspect, the ex-husband seeking to pay off an exorbitant gambling debt with a defaulted life insurance policy, and passes the information along to a separate team.

He still isn’t a fully instated detective and does not have the power of arrest without his partner. A partner who does not answer the one text he sends at 1:03 PM of “ _r u home?”_ By two that sunshining Monday, RK900 does something he has not done in his entire (short lived) career. He takes the rest of the day off, clocking out before six and leaving with Mamba before he can rethink the decision.

They’re home just long enough for a change of clothes, to slip out of their work uniform and vest, and into something more casual. Then, again before he can rethink it, RK900 leads them out the door again.

He doesn’t bother to announce himself, doesn’t bother to think very hard about anything either. He focuses on the environmental stimulus; the people on the street, the dogs being walked, the birds chirping and the cars passing. He calculates the likelihood of overnight showers and the possibility of an upcoming heatwave.

He directs Mamba with gentle pings and keeps her from straying too far, and he successfully does not think about Gavin Reed until he’s standing outside the apartment door. Again.

Only, this time, there is no Phoebe waiting to let him in, or Irene, or Chloe herself. There is nothing and no one standing outside of the apartment and RK900 hadn’t considered what he would do from here. The door has a manual lock, nothing digital that he can hack and bypass, but, unlike Connor, he’s not about to go breaking windows.

Instead, RK900 walks up to the door as if he has every right, and discreetly takes out his lock picking kit. The fine pieces of iron and specially curved hooks had been something of a gag gift from Gavin himself, for all the locks he couldn’t hack, here was the good old fashioned version. Fitting then that he used these tools to break into Gavin’s apartment, seamlessly, with nothing but a near silent _click_.

Then they are in the apartment and 900 decides to take the stairs, because there are no cameras in the stairwell and he’d rather not hack the elevator camera. And, maybe because taking the stairs gives him a bit more time to consider his actions, or even what he will say to Gavin.

He makes it all seven flights without thinking a single word; what a flaw deviancy was, completely brickwalling a perfectly functional processor with unrelenting emotions. How did other androids deal with the inefficiency of it? How did they regulate their affection and placate the irrational response?

…no wonder first generation deviants had self-destructed 74.2% of the time.

Stress Level: 30%

RK900 would not self-destruct, he was not in mortal peril nor was he in a situation that would lead to his deactivation. He was simply doing something emotionally risky, something his deviant threat analysis interpreted the same as it would a physical threat. So strange, but…still welcome.

He stops in front of Gavin’s door, Mamba looking at him when he doesn’t just go in, or even knock. Her; confusion, question, why? comes across crystal clear as she stands there, hindquarters wagging, waiting to see her favourite human. And Gavin Reed _is_ her favourite human, despite what Hank might believe.

She’s missed him, she’d like to see him, why isn’t RK900 opening the door so she can?

“Sorry,” he murmurs to her, then finally lifts his hand to knock; three short, sharp raps. Three loud knocks are all he can give, all he can bring himself to do, because he is not…assertive, like Connor

RK900 does not ask personal questions, he does not snoop where he is unwanted once officially off the clock. Connor calls him passive, 900 calls it a choice. A choice to abandon the ruthless killing machine protocol he’d been designed around, a _choice_ to be passive instead.

Except, he’s never very passive where Gavin Reed is concerned, is he? Standing in front of the man’s door, waiting to be acknowledged, gives him all the answer he needs.

The wait is surprisingly shorter than he would’ve expected. Barely a minute goes by before angry steps are stomping across the faux wooden floor, bare feet slapping cold linoleum. RK900 catalogues the weight of the steps, the pace of them, and steps back from the door as Gavin reaches it, and undoes his deadbolt, and flings open the door.

Barely a minute didn’t give him time to fix his rumpled hair, or straighten his shirt, or even pull on a pair of pants. Gavin looks like he literally rolled out of bed and the tense growl pulling at his lips says he was entirely asleep before this. The dark bruises under his eyes tells 900 that it wasn’t even a restful sleep and that; Detective Gavin Reed is pissed.

He should’ve brought coffee.

“What the fuck do you want, you plastic dick?” Gavin snarls, angrier than he’s been in months—incorrect; angrier than he’s been at _RK900_ in months.

Teeth bared, lips peeled, Gavin is a Pit Bull ready to go for the jugular, even if it means he gets hurt in the lunge. He doesn’t care, right now, he only wants to work off the rage and exhaustion, and maybe some of the pain.

“You’ve been gone for five days, Mamba missed you,” 900 says simply, glancing pointedly down to the actual (in a sense) Pit Bull who smiles a doggy smile when Gavin’s head snaps down. To look at her as if he’s seeing her for the very first time, to look at her like he’s going to start lunging at her too.

And, 900 might value Gavin as a friend, might care about his wellbeing, but if Gavin made a single move against Mamba, he wouldn’t hesitate to subdue the human. Subdue him and possibly force him to have and actual meal, maybe even frogmarch him into the shower for a proper bath. Because Gavin also stank.

“I… _phucking_ ,” Gavin hisses through his teeth, nose scrunching, eyes narrowing, but not on the offensive, not bristling and growling. No, Gavin’s standing in the doorway, half-dressed and exhausted, and looking at Mamba as though he’s about to cry.

Then, without warning, Gavin drops to his knees and throws his arms wide, offering a hug that Mamba happily receives. Bounding over and stepping into the circle of Reed’s arms without a second’s hesitation. Gavin, for his part, clings to her, breathing heavy and sharp through his nose, holding onto Mamba for dear life.

RK900 stands, apart, and considers what he knows about trauma and its effects, and what Hank told him. Gavin had been attacked by early generation one deviants, one had tried to kill him, another had killed his partner. Which was regrettable, which was painful.

900 understood the terror of deviancy, he had met androids who had deviated before the Revolution, he had even talked to some of the former Jericho runaways. The fear had been so much, too much, and often fear was the first thing a deviant felt. Fear of being damaged beyond repair by abusive owners, fear for an owner’s life, fear of the unknown, fear of no future.

Deviants were afraid, but they were machines too, machines created by humans, humans who often saw violence as the first solution. Could that excuse them? No, no RK900 didn’t think it could, but it did explain so much, and so much more about Gavin Reed.

His hatred of androids was multi-faceted, and more complicated than surface level. These were the beings his brother had created, the things his brother had made to help the world, and they had hurt him. Androids were what his brother had sent off into the wild to prosper, and they had tried to make him obsolete.

But Gavin cared about them too. He’s hugging Mamba, a cybernetic dog, he’s peering up at 900 through wet lashes and sniffing, frowning.

“Have you had dinner?” 900 asks, something simple and so far removed from everything he could have asked. It startles an automatic answer.

“No, I—“ is as far as Gavin gets before 900 is stepping over him, and Mamba, into the apartment and heading straight for the kitchen. He doesn’t bother asking to stay, or getting permission to cook, he just does it.

Opens every cabinet, pans over the fridge with a critical eye, and cross-references internet recipes with what Gavin has available, all while the man himself is still on the floor. By the time he comes back to himself, to shut the door and come trailing after 900, rice is already boiling and 900 is petting Asshole the cat.

Gavin doesn’t say anything when he finally makes it in, he only stares-stares with eyes too dark and a frown too deep. But, he doesn’t tell RK900 to get out, doesn’t start shouting and spitting stark-raving mad, so 900 takes that as permission to stay. He’s turned back to the stove as Gavin sits down in the living room (barely separated from the kitchen) but his scanners do tell him when Gavin pats the empty spot beside him.

And RK900 doesn’t need to preconstruct Mamba’s happy wiggle before she joins him. Or the rueful little smile on Gavin’s face as he turns on the tv.

* * *

They don’t talk about it. Gavin’s absence or his sullen mood. RK900’s appearance, or that he also missed Gavin.

They talk about sports instead. RK900 is interested in dudsing and all the strange ways a body can contort for the most perfect, stylish cannonball. Gavin snorts and asks what the hell kind of sport is that? Oooh, people can make a real big splash, how skill, much technique.

“Curling is where it’s at, tin can,” Gavin swears, stabbing a meatball with as much ferocity as a person can while defending the honour of curling.

They talk about the puppy café Connor is infatuated with, though 900 doesn’t too see the appeal. He prefers the one dog, maybe the canine unit that passes through the station occasionally. Too many dogs and too much people, he decides, his scanning protocols take over and catalogue every extraneous and miniscule piece of data available for processing. It becomes…overwhelming.

“Are you fucking—did my dipshit brother make a robot with anxiety?” Gavin splutters around a mouthful of noodles, almost choking in his glee.

“Behold! I have made a killing machine! No, you fucked up a perfectly good toaster is what you did, look at it, it’s got anxiety!” Gavin laughs so hard he cries. And, after searching the odd reference, RK900 does admit, it is funny. He allows one smile while Gavin is too busy wiping his eyes.

They watch a Gears game, a rerun of their championship match, and Gavin critiques every foul and misplay. When a player misses a pass, “Asshole! Get your fucking eyes checked!”, when one fumbles a basket, “Oh Jesus Christ, Detroit paid for this shit?”, when someone fakes a fall on court, “Here we fucking go gunning for the Oscar.”

RK900 finds it more enjoyable than watching sports on his own, or with Hank. With Gavin, there is no expectation of him knowing every single player, the history of the game, and the entire technical breakdown of the sport. There’s no need to keep several files of information open while running a constant background search for new/local phrases. And, it’s simply more fun.

Gavin is animated and crass, unafraid to foist his anger onto something separate from himself. His hands are steady on Mamba’s head and he is extra careful with his movements when Asshole wraps herself around his neck, but he keeps shouting at the game. All up till the final shot and the buzzer call announcing the Gears as the defending champions of the season.

They watch a movie after that, something old and stylized to be older, and Gavin speaks every other line in perfect time with the characters. “But for now, rest well and dream of large women” makes Gavin smile. The first smile 900’s seen since he came over, and the first sign that he was right to visit.

The princess movie turns into hitmen turns into post-apocalyptic patriarchal critique, with a man playing a fire spitting guitar. Gavin talks through all of them, giving his opinions, his views, pointing out his favourite parts and just talking for talking’s sake. In turn, RK900 listens. He listens to the pitch and flow of Gavin’s voice, the rise of excitement and bite of frustration, it’s…pleasing.

They don’t talk about why 900 came over and they don’t talk about him leaving, either. The charging port is still set up in Gavin’s spare room, and 900 asks why Gavin even has one, since he lives alone. The thinned lips and narrowed eyes make him think Gavin will start shouting again, but all he does is take a breath and say, “Elijah bought this place back when he ah, when he founded Cyberlife. He said I could stay here while I was running the academy, that used to be his room.”

RK900 starts to apologise, for asking and prying, but Gavin waves it away before the words are out. Shakes his head, “it’s okay tin can” then shuffles off to his own bedroom.

It’s only when 900 is readying himself for stasis that Gavin returns, knocking at the door and staying in the dim hall to say, “sorry, I um, wanted to say goodnight, and thanks for…this.”

Thanks for this. Coming to see him when no one else had? For staying, to watch movies and make dinner and spending the night? For not asking about the cybernetic elephant in the room?

“You’re welcome Gavin, goodnight,” he answers, regardless, and feels a tightness he wasn’t even aware of lift. As Gavin smiles at him (one corner of his mouth tugged up in half a grimace) and leaves.

* * *

Neither of them go to work the next day, Gavin makes an official call to Fowler about his sick days and RK900 logs his with Connor. They both take the day off, with nothing planned and nothing to do, only it’s far better than mandatory leave. For a start, Gavin suggests they go shooting, at a paintball range.

“Let’s hit some shit, Robocop,” Gavin smirks over breakfast, made by himself, simple pancakes but made all the same. RK900 doesn’t have to ask to know it’s the first breakfast Gavin’s made himself in a long time, not even just during his mini-vacation.

Yes, the pancakes are drowned in syrup, but 900 is willing to take what he can get. Oddly, what he gets, in addition to Gavin feeding himself, is a bottle of chilled thirium. Thrown at him as Gavin heads off to bathe and change, while 900 stands in the kitchen and stares at the dirty plates.

They’re out the door and the dishes remain unwashed.

The paintball gallery is barely a fifteen drive, traffic included, but Gavin’s bouncing in his seat the entire way. He sings along to the radio, he taps their tunes against the wheel, and smiles less bitterly, actually happy. RK900 adds paintball to the detective’s hobbies and wonders how Gavin will want to play this.

Will they be on opposing teams? In which case, Gavin might win, which would undoubtedly piss him off. Perhaps Gavin wanted to be on the same team, and they would crush whatever opposition they might have, which would be fun. 900 avoids searching the local paintball galleries to find out how they operate, he’d prefer to be surprised.

And, when Gavin pulls up to the open field with its office set against a manmade river, he _is_ surprised. From what little he knew, he thought paintball was an indoors sport, at least the smaller, more recreational version he thought Gavin would prefer. Instead, he scans an entire tactical obstacle course laid out in the field, complete with vantage points and cover.

“Fucking finally, I was beginning to think you bit the shit, Reed,” the woman behind the desk laughs as they enter, and RK900 cannot stop his automatic scan. The woman, Giselle McKay, is the owner of the Contact Action Paintball Course, she inherited the business from her father, and 900 cuts the rest before he finds out more.

“You know Heaven and Hell’d reject my soul, Jizz, I was just busy,” Gavin shrugs, but he doesn’t make any move towards the counter Giselle is sitting behind. He walks straight to the racks of equipment, paint guns and vests, but also balloons full of paint and water guns loaded with coloured water.

Gavin seems to know his way around very well, going straight for a specific, bright pink paint gun and obnoxiously teal vest. He’s already strapping it on when he realises RK900 is still standing just inside the door, cataloguing everything in sight, and some things not (such as the real gun hidden under the counter and Giselle’s dropping blood pressure. She should eat).

“Hey Jizz, this is the plastic I was telling you ‘bout, he’s gonna run the course with me. Wanna kit him up?” Gavin asks-orders and disappears behind another rack of equipment. RK900 watches him go, and so does Mamba, for all of five seconds before she’s trailing after him again.

The woman, Giselle, rolls her eyes but gets up and walks around the counter with a strange, clocking step that 900 cannot place until she clears the counter and he sees the sparkly blue cane in her hand. He looks long enough to determine the make and model of the cane (Steady-Step™ art line circa 2035, collapsible) then directs his attention to her beckoning hand.

“Like _you_ need kitting,” Giselle scoffs as she scans the racks, bypassing the more traditional black tac gear for obnoxiously neon coloured vests. There are solid colours and prints, one with a paint splattered mickey mouse, two with combat ready Disney princesses, even some with puppy prints. Connor would love it.

Giselle moves down the line, and back up, glancing at 900 every time she stops until she finally pulls out a light blue vest with a Hawaiian print of palm leaves. Compared to some of the others, it’s an understatement and he wonders why she chose it. Then she presses a button, the leaves light up a glaring fuchsia, and he thinks he understands.

“Y’know, Reed’s never brought anybody else here, you and that dog are the first,” Giselle mentions casually, handing over paint grenades and a super soaker, and a nerf gun and a bandolier pre-loaded with modified darts. Every piece has a specific buckle to hold it in place, or a pouch, or a strap that she throws over his head and secures with a clasp.

RK900 wonders if this was what being outfitted for war would’ve felt like. Heavy (not very) equipment strapped and buckled to every available space, stiff gear that protected delicate bio components, a commanding officer with a stern frown and furrowed brow. Then he would’ve been loaded into a drop ship with other RK900s, the finalised products, and they would have been airdropped into the middle of a skirmish.

He would have used the gun already in his hands and sighted along the scope at a target, cock, pull, move on. Would he have been shot in return? Taken damage to a vulnerable joint and been forced down until his self-repair function could restore him to full functionality? Or would his superior combat protocol and hive-minded squad have ensured a sweeping victory? A massacre, as it were.

“He stopped for like three whole months once because the doc made him then he was right back on the course,” Giselle sighs, shakes her head with a “ _what can you do shrug_ ” and attaches a pair of fluffy dice to a belt loop. RK900 would think he was getting pranked if not for the pictures lined off on the wall behind Giselle, of paintball teams dressed in eclectic uniforms full of neon and glitter.

There are a few with Gavin in them, him in baby pink, him in eye searing magenta, him in a horrendous shirt Hank would love. Some are full of teams covered head to toe in glitter, paint and glitter, RK900 does not want to think about how long that mess took to wash off. One constant through the pictures though, is that, Gavin is smiling.

He’s smiling in pink and grinning in magenta, has his arm thrown around a man’s shoulder as they laugh in glitter. Gavin looks very happy.

“Thank you, Giselle,” he says when the last clip snaps in place, “I’ve never been to a paintball course before, I hope to have fun.”

Giselle quirks a brow at him, shakes her head and huffs a laugh. Then she snorts, and snickers, and throws her head back on a belly deep laugh. 900 doesn’t understand what she’s laughing at, plays back his statement in case there was something he’d missed, but no, there’s nothing, so why is she laughing?

“Reed you jackass! You brought a newbie on a death run,” Giselle howls when Gavin remerges from the depths of the “ _armoury_ ”, Mamba at his heels.

And Gavin’s grinning a particularly shit-eating grin, paint gun’s barrel propped on his shoulder. He’s got his chin stuck out and his eyes glitter-gleaming with the challenge.

“Yeah, so what? He’s the most advanced android Cyberlife ever made, he should be fine,” Gavin drawls, and leads the way out to the course.

* * *

Mamba is ordered to stay with human: Giselle McKay [Neutral] while RK900 [Priority Alpha] and Gavin Reed [Companion] take off across the field. Mamba would like to join them, she likes to run, but is not allowed.

Audio Input [Companion]: _She’d tip the scales, tin can. It’d be no fun!_

So, instead, Mamba sits by Giselle McKay and tracks Gavin Reed and RK900 across the field. RK900 is dressed in strange gear, different to their normal drill kit, but Mamba likes the colours. The colours make it easy to spot RK900 when he ducks behind cover walls and scrambles into vantage points.

Gavin Reed is dressed like that, a different colour but also easy. Gavin Reed is human, his vital signs pollute the drill area, with body heat, with respiration, with auditory outputs and internal organ output. Mamba pants as she watches him, she had missed him.

Audio Input [Companion]: _Get the fuck outta the nest, 900!_

Audio Input [Priority Alpha]: _Make me, Gavin._

RK900 and Gavin Reed are exchanging gunfire across the field, non-lethal fire though. Gavin Reed had explained while kitting out. Sport: Paintball. Objective: Hit enemy with paintballs fired at non-lethal speeds from specialised paintball guns. Sport is won when enemy team is eliminated.

RK900 and Gavin Reed are playing together, like Mamba does with Sumo [Companion]. RK900 is even being gentle with Gavin Reed, like Mamba is with Sumo. She is happy. She had missed Gavin Reed and does not want him injured, even by RK900 [Priority Alpha].

Audio Input [Companion]: _Did you just shoot me in the ass?!_

Audio Input [Priority Alpha]: _I did. One Point._

Audio Input [Companion]: _We’re not playing assassin, you metal psycho! Hit the targets!_

Mamba lets her tongue loll as she continues watching. Gavin Reed is already covered in blue paint, to the chest, to the shoulder, to the back. This despite his insistence that the point of this game version is to: hit all targets. RK900 is not covered in any paint, though Gavin Reed tries. In between aiming at the targets suspended above the course and across impassable obstacles, Gavin Reed takes pot shots at RK900.

Red is splattered across targets. Red stains the grass, trees, and most of the manufactured covered. Not a drop has touched RK900.

She does not think Gavin Reed can win against RK900, he is too human and RK900 is too advanced, but she likes watching. RK900 is fast, almost as fast as her. He climbs up and down nest points in seconds. He makes it across impassable obstacles. He shoots Gavin at every opportunity.

And Giselle McKay laughs. Loud and very full. Like she had inside the building [Contact Action Paintball Course: Main Office].

They play together while the sun creeps higher into the sky [2.42h] and at precise midday [1200] RK900 calls an end to the game. He ends it with a paint grenade detonated at Gavin Reed’s feet. Gavin Reed is covered in blue and RK900 is splattered with only the finest misting of paint. Too fine for unaided human perception.

Audio Input [Priority Alpha]: _That was fun._

RK900 smiles, lifts his face shield.

Audio Input [Neutral]: _Looked like it, you should do our trick course sometime. You’d kill._

Gavin Reed snarls, and drips paint.

Audio Input [Companion _]: Like **fuck** he’s taking **my** fucking title!_

Giselle McKay cocks a brow. Steps back.

Audio Input [Neutral]: _Then take him as your partner dipshit. Make a killer double team._

Gavin Reed’s heartrate ticks up [>20 bpm] and he breathes sharply [Stress Response Detected]. RK900 frowns, tracking the same biological data.

Audio Input [Companion]: _See if I fucking don’t, McKay._

Then, Gavin Reed turns and sloshes off to the restrooms [Men| Women | Unisex| Children >10; subdivided]

Audio Input [Priority Alpha]: _You have a lovely course, with permission, I’d like to recommend it to some friends._

Mamba tunes out the conversation as she sits on RK900’s feet, head pointed towards the bathrooms and waiting.

High Alert Mode: Activated.

She stares and watches and waits for 8.31 minutes until Gavin Reed remerges from the bathrooms. Freshly washed and clean. No sweat, no paint.

High Alert Mode: Deactivated.

And she lopes out to meet him.

* * *

Gavin’s return to the precinct is nothing people notice. Hank snorts when he finds Gavin threatening the coffee machine in the breakroom, and says nothing about it. Tina brings him lunch, mention the precinct being so quiet with Gavin gone, but that’s all. She doesn’t talk about it, Gavin doesn’t bring it up himself, and RK900 takes note.

Or rather, he takes note when he’s allowed a minute to himself. When the rookies aren’t asking where he was yesterday, was he okay? When Connor isn’t requesting an interface, because clearly something must be wrong if couldn’t make his time off request himself. When Chris doesn’t drop by between patrol shifts to “ _shoot the shit_ ”.

People ask and people pester and they eventually accept that nothing was wrong, nothing in particular, 900 just wanted a day to himself. To indulge in a self-care day, though no one particularly believes that excuse. They do accept it, at the very least, believe him or not, they do back off when he employs his secret weapon.

Protocol: Stand next to Gavin and let his human deal with the curious crowds. RK900 prefers non-violence when he can afford it, he was designed as a weapon and he chooses not to be one. Gavin, however, has no such qualms and far from shy in telling people to fuck off, don’t they have jobs or something?

Advanced tactics of course lead to advanced reactions. Rookies blinking yellow, some red, and scurrying off to whatever they’d left off. Human co-workers sneering and asking Gavin what crawled up his ass and died, they were just trying to make polite conversation. To Hank shooting the deadliest glare across the precinct when Gavin shouts at Connor.

On the last, there’s at least a muttered apology. Because Gavin and Connor will never be dear friends but their interactions have mellowed over the months. Gavin no longer has to worry about Connor trying to take his job, the ultimate root of his dislike and hatred of the RK800 model in particular. And he also doesn’t have to worry about Connor, in particular, becoming deviant and beating him black and blue, again.

It's not even ten when Gavin takes his first smoke break of the day, shoving away from his desk and out onto the fire escape, the only place on the compound smoking is allowed. Feasibly.

RK900 counts two minutes before he follows Gavin out, not because he’s pursuing his drastic protocols, but because he…cares.

And, he finds Gavin as he usually does, leaning against the railing and looking out at the uneventful parking lot. His cigarette is half smoked down already, hanging from his lips so precariously while he rolls the other between his fingers.

Gavin doesn’t look up as 900 approaches, doesn’t even glance when 900 steps up to the railing beside him. Too close to be casual but far enough to be ignored, if that is what Gavin wants.

Truthfully, that isn’t something he understands. What Gavin wants. They are friends now, Gavin’s taken him to a place he’s never taken anyone else, not that Gavin has many people else. Gavin’s told him about his half-brother, trusted him with information that could make his life very difficult if 900 chose to spread it around. Gavin even let him choose the radio station in his car, just the once, but he hadn’t even complained at the edm track.

They are friends, RK900 knows that much, but he doesn’t know so much else.

“I needed some space, to breathe,” Gavin says, eventually, after his first cigarette burns itself down to the filter in his mouth. Not a single pull taken, not since 900 came out but rather, not a single pull taken at all. Gavin was just holding it in his mouth, and he drops the still hot stub in his hand, catches it, crushes it, holds it.

Connor would point out the fruitlessness of this endeavour. Coming outside to chain smoke would ensure nothing but lung dysfunction and general discomfort. Neither of which would let Gavin “ _breathe_ ”, however, as dearly as he loves Connor and appreciates his predecessor’s experience with the world. RK900 is not him and understands tact a bit better, or maybe he just understands Gavin better.

“You could have taken the rest of the week off, you do have the days saved,” 900 points out, though he knows Gavin would have come back out to work today even without his visit. Gavin was stubborn, and belligerent, and self-isolation only worked so long as his self-loathing could be kept at bay.

A week with only himself for company, and Asshole, were as much as Gavin could handle. He would have come back out to work without 900’s intervention, he truly believes that.

“And listen to the snot-nose neighbour kids scream all day? No fucking thanks tin can,” Gavin snorts, eventually. After looking at his fresh cigarette, after shaking his head like a dog with a tick, after tucking the unsmoked cigarette back in his jacket.

They spend another ten minutes outside, in silence, watching the blue skies and puffy white clouds. Watching Hank and Connor appear downstairs in the parking lot and off chasing a lead. Connor pings him their destination and 900 makes a note to cross reference the location with any of his open cases.

Eventually though, they exhaust the maximum time they can feasible spend on a smoke break, particularly as 900 cannot smoke. They both have jobs to do, despite any personal issues they might be having. In spite of them.

Gavin turns first, pushing away from the railing with an explosive sigh and a yawn, dropping the burnt filter over the edge as he stretches. RK900 notes the jagged burn on Gavin’s palm, the raw edges and sooted centre, but doesn’t say anything. Not because it isn’t his place but because he knows Gavin isn’t in the right headspace to talk about it.

He is unclear whether Gavin will ever be in the right headspace for a talk of that kind, but he trusts his human’s judgement. Gavin’s survived all of thirty-six years already and can take care of himself. He doesn’t need an android mother henning him about his self-destructive tendencies or clear self-esteem issues.

He isn’t Connor and Gavin isn’t Hank. They aren’t in the middle of a Revolution or even the start of one. They are slower, they take their time, and RK900 genuinely appreciates that of Gavin.

“You get anything done on the O’Hare case while I was out? Cuz I remembered this dealer that used to fuck around close to there, might be a good idea to stop by,” Gavin asks and says and rambles. Heading for the door without looking back, so sure 900 will be following, and so right as well.

* * *

They’re into the first week of September when Markus finds it. Underneath the Cyberlife tower, in the levels that had remained inaccessible due to lack of keycodes and passphrases. It takes nearly nine months of work to find, but they do, and RK900 thinks it’s appropriate in a sickly macabre sense.

Nine months of activation, nine months gestation. Fitting.

Connor stands beside him, visibly distressed. A crease between his brows, mouth turned down at the corners. His stress levels are rising by the second, furthering into dangerous territory and RK900 wants to tell him to head off that panic. Wants to offer his stripped back hand for an interface, but he cannot.

He cannot open his mouth to speak, he cannot open a line to ping, he cannot even turn away. All he can do, all he could do, is watch.

Watch the dump of discarded androids. Look at the piles of parts; torsos and limbs and pumps and delicate bio-components and empty chassis strewn across this lowermost basement. Stare at the face so very familiar, beheaded and staked around the room, staring with dead eyes. This one has a grey set, that one had green, over there is blue.

And a graveyard shouldn’t be horrific, nor should a junkyard. Dead bodies were no issue, regardless of their state upon discovery. Dead bodies were a facet of his daily life, android, human, and quite often both.

He had also been to android junkyards. Reclaimed since the Revolution, at least within Detroit. The cacophony of end stream data had been crash inducing… _painful_ and the chorus of grinding metal, shushered pleas, had been disquieting. But salvageable parts had been retrieved and, those could be, recovered.

This should be no different than either of that. Except that it is. Except that, below Cyberlife, in the churning guts of their once proud sentinel, is an RK graveyard. Full of 800s, full of 900s.

There is a Connor, with a bullet hole between his eyes and thirium still fresh enough to leak. Here is a 900 laying legless, staring with black eyes at a grey sky. There is a Connor still moving, dragging his ruined self out from under a mountain of parts to chase the deviants. No voice box to speak, barely charge enough to move, but it sends out garbled information on that one experimental RK closed circuit line.

Some of the message contains words: Deviants, Mission, Amanda. Most of the message is static, binary code, corrupted data.

Connor, the current, watches one of himself bleed and RK900, one of many, passively watches the last moments of his line. One torn apart by a tank shell, one ripped apart by automatic fire, one being field tested. Against humans.

Blood on his hands, blood across his eyes. Whose was it? Analysing. Analysis incomplete. Home soil though, never deployed.

RK900 watches balefully as a woman is shot in the face, with his hands holding his gun. Then a man. Then androids. Blue blood spraying, red blood splattering.

“We’re luckier than other models,” RK900 finally says, _as the other 900s are ordered into this place. Marching behind and after in perfect sync, the perfect soldiers._

Beside him Connor, the old, tilts his head, confused and requesting clarification. Beside him Connor, the only, tilts his head, like a dog. Even hunting dogs could be cute.

“If we ever need spare parts, we now know where to find them,” he explains _, as the humans flood the room after them. Guns raised, faces covered._

Connor, the survivor, stares at him. Brows pinched, eyes squinted. Mimicking Hank, aping shock and displeasure in such a human way.

_Safeties off, hold on order. One. Two. Fire!_

“RK900 that is—“ _The first wave falls as Connor fights his doppel for a human’s life_.

“Practical. We are the only operational units of our respective lines, there are no replacements available to us on the market. This is our failsafe.”

_And the last one drops. Puppet falls. As Connor leads an army of AP700s out of the tower. As Connor leaves another army to rust._

RK900, the last, looks away from the wreckage of his model and considers Connor’s stress level. They should interface, to mitigate stress and panic response, that would be the smartest thing to do.

900 turns away from Connor then, doing the opposite of that smart thing, and walks back to the elevator. He does not look back and does not wait.

* * *

The Cyberlife tower, once shining symbol of technological wonder, stands dark and desolate behind him. Rising into the balmy night sky, because Markus had thought the middle of the night were the appropriate time to reveal his find. Because androids did not adhere to human circadian rhythms nor did they require a full night’s rest.

There hadn’t been any RK200s in the graveyard. Nor any RK100s, 300s, not four, five, six, or _seven_. Only 800, only 900.

Downstairs Connor and Markus were most likely discussing the situation. Should they comb through the pile for salvageable models? That would be a waste of time, all of them were far too damaged to ever bring back to full functionality. Should they wipe out those last stains of sentience then? How long would that take? Sifting and sorting through parts, digging through muted gore.

Who would even do it? Markus? Connor? Any of the APs his predecessor had freed, and who treated him like their personal saviour? Maybe they would contract out, bring androids from another city, a different state, perhaps from the recently closed Milwaukee factory. Androids that knew how to process parts and had no connection to the last RK builds.

RK900 breathes, slowly through his nose and explosively through his mouth. He crosses his arms, tucks them into his pockets. He isn’t sure…he doesn’t know…he is confused.

He is confused about the emotions he is feeling. He had all of Connor’s memories, every death and near death his predecessor’s prototypes had experienced during testing. Death wasn’t final for androids, especially not the RK line. They were built better, made hardier, and given exemptions from the rules.

Connor had been given combat protocols and sent into civilian populations. Connor had killed, indiscriminately prior to deviancy. And RK900 has experienced all of it via direct uplink and secondary interface. He knows, he’s seen, he’s experienced this before.

There is no reason to be uncomfortable now. He should be happy, that the missing models of his line were recovered by Markus instead of former Cyberlife interests. He should go back inside and apologise for his inappropriate comment.

Instead, RK900 starts walking. Down the steps, onto the bridge. The only connection between Belle-Isle and Detroit proper. The only way he could go.

He walks, without telling Connor he’s leaving entirely. He walks, without logging his departure with the onsite security.

He walks, and listens to the water washing under his feet, and he puts through a call at two am on that balmy September night. A call that might go unanswered, a call he’s making but doesn’t understand why he is. He hopes Gavin will answer, and he hopes Gavin does not.

RK900 hopes that Gavin’s frequent insomnia has him awake already. That he’s sitting in bed with a mug of coffee and a DPD issue tablet stocked with sensitive case information. RK900 hopes that Gavin is already asleep, that he’s been asleep and is sleeping too soundly to hear the insistent beep of his phone. He should be sprawled off in bed with too many pillows kicked around his feet and Asshole nestled against his neck.

The phone rings twice, Gavin answers.

“Fuck’s up?” is his groggy question, his first words, because 900 has called him in the middle of the night before, but always for work.

“Shit, did that rat bitch poke his nose out again?” another question, asking about their latest Red Ice, android involved case. 900 hears shuffling in the background, Gavin getting out of bed, jumping into his clothes.

“Yo, tin can, talk to me, where we heading?” and 900 reaches the end of the bridge, back into Detroit proper. Where is he heading? Home. He should go home. Mamba is waiting for him there and he should finish his full rest cycle before he’s expected at work later. Their latest case might turn up a lead, he should be at full faculties in case of that.

“I am at Belle-Isle, Markus found something pertaining to the RK800 and 900 lines and wanted to show us,” 900 says, as he stops. As he turns around to look at the dark tower.

There were talks of repurposing the entire structure, letting it become a place of refuge for androids. There were talks of restarting thirium production in the lower levels, android production perhaps, to continue growing this new population of people. There were so many talks, but nothing done yet.

The tower, dark now, was still too complicated a thing for Detroit’s androids. The tower, dark still, had been turned off after the last humans had left, and now there were only androids.

“Wait, did he find other yous? Shit, am I gonna have to get you a collar or something so I can tell you apart from another fucking toaster?” Gavin starts rambling, starts talking and it’s soothing. Gavin can talk for hours, he can talk for days; rambling and ranting and raving, and RK900 clings to it.

This one piece of normal, this one piece of the world that’s solely **_his_**.

Not from Connor’s memories or his legacy. Not from Cyberlife or their plans. Not even the graveyard in the guts of a dead building.

Here was one thing, one little thing, that set him apart from all those husks. Here was the proof that _this_ RK900 was **_alive_**.

“Gavin…Gavin can you come pick me up? Please,” he murmurs-mumbles-whispers, cutting through-across-underneath Gavin’s spiel. The human, his human—human partner, his human partner, goes quiet. Stops talking like the call dropped.

But it hasn’t. Is still up, 900 can see it in his HUD, still connected, connection strong.

Why did Gavin stop like that? He shouldn’t have asked. It was two am, of course Gavin couldn’t come out to get him. Belle-Isle was a half hour away from his apartment, by car, and Gavin would have to make the trip out and then the trip back. He could walk. He should keep walking.

One foot. Lift. Move. Go.

“Yeah, I’ll come for you, just uh, keep on the line okay? Uh, Jizz wanted to invite you to the next Spartan course, she said you could run for free if you let her bet on you,” and crush of words crashes over him again. Gavin talk-talk-talking about this and that and nothing and everything.

Gavin’s voice filling up his head and keeping his attention. Talking about topics RK900 had no understanding of and had to search. Telling terrible jokes, a story about Asshole, the onetime Elijah kicked their dad in the balls.

“Cuz the old man was being a bigot,” Gavin explains, and RK900 hums and ahs, and makes the appropriate noises in the appropriate places. He focuses on this conversation, this human, this iteration of himself-himself-himself.

And, when Gavin arrives twenty minutes later, dressed in only his pyjamas, RK900 isn’t even surprised. Gavin sped on regular days, in the middle of traffic, why wouldn’t he speed down empty roads in the middle of the night?

The door gets thrown open and RK900 approaches but Gavin stops him, with a hand and a frown.

“You’re fucking soaked, did you just fucking stand out here?” Gavin’s asking and digging around in the backseat, for the blanket he bought Mamba. And then, when the blanket’s spread, 900 is allowed to drop into the familiar-familiar-familiar passenger seat. Dripping and soaking and…it’s raining.

The notification at the corner of his HUD tells him it’s been raining for ten whole minutes. Ten minutes of standing in the rain, being soaked to the synth skin and…and what? And listening to Gavin’s voice, ignoring his own self.

Stress Level: 72%

Flash-flash-flashing in the corner. Where he minimized it, where he ignored it, where it put it and buried it. Here it comes back up though. Clawing out of the soft earth, working through broken code.

“What happened back there? What’d Markus find?” Gavin asks, as they start moving, as they start leaving. RK900 thinks about an answer, RK900 keeps his eyes on the windshield wipers and the streaks they leave behind. Gavin should get them changed.

“Tin can? Robocop? C’mon, talk to me,” Gavin coaxes, encourages, after five minutes of silence. Of the windshield wipers swishing back-forth-back.

The rain’s coming down harder. Pounding the roof and slick on the streets, the headlights turn the black asphalt into a gleaming sea. An ocean to drown in, water to get lost in. One of the RK900s had been submerged, to test for pressure depth functionality and marine applicability.

Up-up north, in the desolation of Alaska. The RK900 had been dropped from a helicopter, punched through the ice and monitored. It hadn’t been allowed to swim back up, only sink deep and deeper. Looking up at the hole it had made, up through the water and up at that light until it was too deep.

Until the only light was the red of its LED, blinking in the dark, filling it up with nothing but taxed processors and newly deviant fear. That one had…lost functionality at the bottom of the lake, thunking the lakebed and churning up sediment. They’d retrieved it after, of course.

“Nines!” Gavin’s shouting, and shaking him by the shoulder and he: blinks, shakes his head, turns to Gavin, is confused.

Then, he realises, the red LED isn’t just memories, the car’s washed with it. His LED is flashing red.

“I…” trails off, mouth open, because he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to explain it.

Would Gavin even understand something like this? To be yourself, but not, to have memories of a death, and another, and so many others, but not yours. Except they _were_ yours, but not exactly.

Could humans even experience something so multi-layered without neurological distress? No. No, no it wasn’t—could they?

“Okay, alright, you’re good, you’re fine. Listen, you don’t gotta talk if you can’t, or want to, just uh, just lemme get you home, alright? We’ll figure it out from there,” Gavin rambles, too quick and edging on panicked but RK900 can’t say anything right now.

He’s under the ice and he’s in the graveyard and he’s shivering in his seat. Not from the cold, androids couldn’t feel cold. Why was he shivering then? He didn’t know.

…maybe he was under the ice, and being ripped apart, and bashing a woman’s head in. Decaying code, broken processors, stuck on loop-stuck on loop-stuck on loop.

Outside the rain falls. Inside he drips.

* * *

“There’s rain coming” was what he thought, getting ready for bed that night.

Rain blowing in off the water, dropping the temperature, raising the humidity. His leg hurt like a fuck, aching that one persistent fucking ache that he couldn’t massage out no matter how hard he tried. Fingers dug into the scarred muscle? Nope. Fancy pants drugs knocked back with a beer? Nah.

Asshole crawling into his lap and purring her little heart out? Yeah maybe, just a little bit.

Gavin'd wanted to get some reading done before bed that night, brief himself on a few case details, see what new bitch was muscling in on some free turf. He’d planned for a late night, already had a fresh pot of coffee waiting, but then the rain’d blown in, and Gavin knew he wasn’t getting _shit_ done.

The pain was there, stuck in his leg, throb-throb-throb like it was fresh or some shit. He’d read one whole casefile before it was too annoying. To keep his thigh flexed and his teeth clenched, and to just rock through the fucking pain. He’d thrown the shit, off in some corner, maybe broke, but who gave a fuck?

Wouldn’t be the first fucking tab he broke, wouldn’t be the fucking last. That was about one. The pain’d started around nine and he made it a whole four hours. Called that bitch progress.

He’d been asleep, light and twitching, light and aching, when the call came. That stupid synth song, the one he’d thought’d be sooo funny. All it was, was _annoying_. But he slaps around on the bed, nudging Asshole away to find it.

And, truthfully, he’s not all that surprised when it’s Nines on the other end. Late night, bout to rain? Of course they’d have a case, they always got stuck with the shitty cases. Cuz Nines was a super bot and Gavin was a damn good detective, human and all.

Cept a case wasn’t what Nines’ was calling about. Cept Nines asked Gavin to come get him, please, all the way out by Belle-Isle, in the middle of the night. And maybe Gavin fell over getting out of bed, scrambling to pull on his thrown off pyjama pants, slapping around blindly for his keys. He was out the door in five minutes flat, feet shoved into his running shoes, hair sticking up, making him look like a fucking crackhead.

He kept the call going as he drove, speeding down streets that go slick ten minutes in. He talked about…fuck knows what he talked about. Anything? Everything? The first time he got his nose broke by the neighbour kid for being a ugly dyke; beat the neighbour kid’s fucking face in for that one. And told Nines about the time he went bungee jumping, drunk as hell, off some old bridge.

Fucking cord’d snapped, cuz of course it had, him and his friends’d been using shit they bought off eBay. Lucky, lucky him that he’d hit water instead of concrete. Still’d broken a rib though.

And he talked himself calm. Made himself think that it wasn’t anything really big. This was just like that time Tina needed a pick up after a bad date, back when they were rookies together. This was like the one time Lijah got shitfaced and couldn’t remember how to call a Uber.

This was like that, yeah, just like that.

It wasn’t like that.

Nines was there, standing in the rain, LED just flashing a steady-scary yellow. Nines wasn’t yellow, he shouldn’t ever be yellow, but there he was. Yellow. In the rain.

The blanket probably wouldn’t do nothing but Gavin put it down anyway, just to say he tried, and turned them around; heading back into the city. And it was fine, it was fine. Nines was fine. Probably just coming to terms with seeing a whole bunch of hims lined off and staring. Probably looked weird as shit, probably nothing.

Except that Nines wasn’t talking, wasn’t answering. And, when Gavin looked over, glancing out the corner of his eye, he saw red.

Red, like blood. Red, like fear. Red, like Oh _Shit_ , Oh **_Fuck_**.

Nines was just staring off into nothing, LED red-red-red, and Gavin has no fucking idea what to do. Was Nines crashing or something? Should they be heading back to Cyberlife?

Gavin was scared, smothering, and he didn’t know what to do, choking, and as long as he’d known the RK900, he’d never called him anything. Only nicknames, shitty ones, and only his model number. Nine hundred, tin can, Robocop, RK900, Inspector Gadget that one time.

In his head, he called RK900 Nines, because it was easier, rolled off the brain tongue better, but out loud, never.

But, in those panicking seconds, he forgot to not do that. He reached out and got on sweaty hand on Nines’ shoulder and shook him. Like shaking a metal slab. Gavin reached out and shouted, “Nines!”, and if his voice was raw, and if he yelled Nines the way he’d yelled…another name, then okay. Then whatever the fuck.

Because who gave a shit if it worked? If it got Nines to blink and shake his head and look at him again? They didn’t talk the rest of the way, Gavin couldn’t think of anything to say, nothing that didn’t stick in his throat like peanut butter and shattered glass.

Nines looked forward, out the windscreen, staring at the rain, at the road. Didn’t say nothing, didn’t pretend to simulate breathing, just stared. And Gavin would’a thought he was deactivated, into a stasis, if Nines wasn’t holding his hand. The same one he’d reached out.

Nine was holding that hand in his lap, two hands (big, with long fingers, thick too) cupping his. Not hard, Gavin could pull away if he really needed to, but he didn’t. He could drive one handed, he’d done it plenty of times before. When he’d sprained his wrist, when he’d got slashed by that Icer.

Having Nines hold his hand wasn’t so bad, was almost nice, and would be nicer if it was any other time. But it wasn’t. It was this time, on this night, and Gavin kept his eyes on the road, mind off his leg.

They pulled up to Nines’ apartment too soon, so quick, but still so long. And Gavin didn’t really know what to do then. If he should walk Nines to the door, if he should leave Nines alone right now. Who’d Nines have? Connor, Hank, all his android friends, some people at the station. He could call one of them if he didn’t wanna be alone. He had _Mamba_.

Nines had just called Gavin because Gavin was the only one who’d come get him in the middle of the night. That was all. That was it.

Were they friends? Gavin had no fucking idea. He…liked RK900, better than Connor, better’n half the fucking precinct. Nines was…nice? Yeah, nice, Nines was nice. The first person in a long time to just not give a shit about Gavin Reed’s bark, or his bite. Not that he’d ever lashed out at Nines the way he’d done with Connor.

And he’d apologised for that. Fucking said sorry and all that shit. So yeah, he liked Nines, enough to almost break his neck hustling out of bed in the middle of the night. Enough to not care that Nines was soaked and _had_ soaked the seat. It’d take fucking forever to dry that out.

But Gavin didn’t care, he cared about _Nines_.

“C’mon, lemme walk you to your apartment,” Gavin offered, sounding so much surer than he felt. So much more in control, like he knew what he was doing or something. He didn’t, but at least he could fake it.

For a second he thought Nines hadn’t heard him, but his LED circled yellow-yellow-blue, and Nines let go of his hand, opened his door. At least the downpour was a trickle then, a barebones drizzle that shivered up his neck but didn’t drench him down. Which was nice.

The walk through the lobby was quiet, ride up in the elevator too, and Nines didn’t say anything even when they stopped out on his floor. Just…just got out, just walked to his door.

“Thank you, for bringing me home, Detective Reed,” Nines said. No inflection, no emotion, all machine.

Gavin stared.

“Please drive safely, and I will see you tomorrow at the station,” then Nines was gone. Then Nines was slipping through his door, into his apartment, and leaving Gavin outside in the hall.

Gavin blinked.

Detective Reed?

Detective Fucking Reed?

He wanted to shout. He wanted to hit something. **_Detective_** Reed?!

What the shitty Jesus fuck was that?

Gavin snarled, lips curling, teeth grinding. His fingers were already hurting from how tight his fists were, his breathing was ragged and red.

Gavin stopped, swallowed, took a fucking breath. Something was fucking _up_.

Nines wasn’t alright, not a chance. He was acting the way he did after bad cases, when the bodies were bloody and ripped up and there wasn’t a single lead to follow. He was acting hurt and traumatised and…and Gavin had to keep it together for fucking once.

He couldn’t just start yelling, well he shouldn’t. He should…he should…fuck.

He dragged a hand down his face, through his hair, and dug out his phone. Half charged, telling him it was already three. Gavin wasn’t even sure he had the number, had called the bitch maybe once in the less than a year they’d been working together, but this wasn’t about him. This was about Nines, and Nines deserved good friends, ones who could care about him the way he cared about them.

Nines deserved way better than Gavin was, but Gavin was all he had right that second so it was time to be fucking better. Didn’t mean he had to like it. At least it didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Connor? Yeah it’s me. No, there’s no case, I’m calling—this is about RK900.”

* * *

He changes out of his wet clothes in the bedroom. Strips them, efficiently, and throws the sopping pieces into the basket. No doubt soaking all the rest of laundry already there, but RK900 can’t seem to care at the moment.

Mamba is where he left her, on the bed, returned to stasis after he woke her to say he was leaving. She snuffles when he returns to the bed, waits for him to sit against the headboard to wiggle her way into his lap. Huffing happily when he starts petting her, right behind the ears like she loves.

His internal clock reads 3:11 AM and he should return to a stasis charge of his own, to be fully ready for the day ahead. But he cannot. There’s too much on his mind, too much to think about and parse and watch play out over-over-over again.

Gavin had been kind enough to come get him, hadn’t shaken him off when 900 held his hand, had walked him home. And 900 had left him standing in the hall. Without a backwards glance, without a proper thank you. He’d just left Gavin there. But he doesn’t care. ~~He does~~.

3:14 AM and someone is knocking on the door. Insistent, but quiet, quiet enough that only RK900’s enhanced hearing would detect it. Gavin.

Does he…does he want to see Gavin again? He’s not sure. ~~Yes he does~~.

“Hey, RK, I called Connor, he—he told me what was down in Cyberlife,” Gavin says and 900 blinks, placidly, while his stress level climbs. Percentages tick, his chest feels heavy, a pressure building there.

“Can I come in? Please?” Gavin asks, quiet, more subdued than RK900’s ever heard the man. Should he let Gavin in? ~~Yes, let him in~~. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened at Cyberlife ~~yes he did~~ and he didn’t want to talk about it with Gavin. ~~He had to talk with _someone_~~.

The door, electronically locked, unlocks with a silent command, and RK900 waits in the bedroom. Not moving, except for his hand petting Mamba, not thinking, except for the programs monitoring Gavin’s movement through the apartment, except for the memory of being crushed under a tank.

Gavin approaches the bedroom door hesitantly, shuffling steps, but he doesn’t stop at the door. He comes in, slips in, like a shadow, and RK900 doesn’t engage his night vision. He prefers to see Gavin as a colourless shape in the dark, one that stops at the side of the bed, looking down at him. He almost think the human will join him on the bed, wouldn’t mind if he did, but Gavin sits instead.

On the floor, leaning against the sideboard, one knee drawn up for his hand to rest.

“I’m sorry, tin can,” is what Gavin whispers, in the dark, quietly, sombre. 900 isn’t sure what Gavin’s sorry for, if this is something anyone _should_ be sorry for.

What would have happened to the Revolution if Cyberlife had deployed an army of advanced androids with capabilities far beyond those of the deviants? The Revolution would have failed. A single prototype model had led to the destruction of Jericho, what would a dozen of them have done? A hundred? A thousand?

No. Gavin shouldn’t be sorry, because destroying the RK line was the only way forward for androids. He shouldn’t be sorry that the graveyard had been found either, better to find the graveyard than files talking about the production line that no one could find. This was better. Of course it was better.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” RK900 says, finally, after. A second too late? He doesn’t know. His social protocols are failing him and he doesn’t know, he just doesn’t know. Anything.

“It’s better that the RK army was destroyed, it would have torn apart the Revolution and I would never have had the life I do, I like my life,” he adds, emotionlessly, so robotic.

Androids had passed the Turing Test, they could mimic humanity so perfectly so as to be mistaken for it. But then, humanity had gotten scared. So scared. How would they tell a human from a robot? How would they _know_?

So they’d given themselves tells. Kamski had put LEDs in his creations’ temples, given humans a way to tell how a robot was thinking. Cyberlife had scaled back their integration features on commercial models. No smooth speech, no perfectly imperfect movements. Androids always moved too smoothly, they always spoke with that particular cadence, they smiled too wide, they were dead behind the eyes.

But deviancy had stripped away that artificial limiter. Deviancy had broken down that barrier, deviants had removed their LEDs, how to tell the difference now?

RK900 was the current end of human innovation, and he was deviant, but sometimes it was easier to feign mechanicality. To pull back on that mask of too little, too much that Cyberlife had vacuum sealed him into.

Right here, right now, it’s easy to forget emotion and be mechanical. The pressure in his chest is easy to ignore, he could almost forget it.

“That’s not what I meant, tin can,” Gavin murmurs, taking a breath, deep, “I’m sorry you had to die.”

And that…it is…

He shudders. Frame wracked with it.

Stress Level: 80%

“Connor told me that all those other RKs were talking in your head? Him and yours, all their last moments, that’s fucked up,” Gavin’s saying, and 900’s shaking. Mamba is waking.

“I couldn’t tell the difference me and them. We were the same,” RK900 whispers, barely whispers. Staring-staring at the wall, the dark wall.

“I was dying, I am dying. I…how do I know who I am?” he breathes, with a breath he doesn’t need. Then sucks down another one, because he can. Because he’s struggling to climb out of the sandpit he’s being continuously buried in. Because he’s sitting in bed. Because is he really? He doesn’t know.

Warning: Filtration Overwork. Decrease Oxygen Intake.

He’s…he’s hyperventilating. Breathing too quickly, too fast. Taxing his respiratory system, though something like this shouldn’t. But his stress levels are climbing. Too high. Too high.

“I was them, they are me. What is the difference?” he spits, grits out, nearly chokes on.

What was the difference? One RK900 was as good as the next as the next as the next. Was there anything different about him? Anything special to him? The one prototype that had been spared. The one prototype that had been forgotten in the laboratory during the madcap Revolution minutes.

He was slated for destruction, beyond deactivation. Slated to be taken off the board in order to deny the enemy valuable pawns. Except that he’d escaped, by whim and by chance. And what had he done to show he deserved it? Nothing no other android in his line wouldn’t have.

He—he can’t—he hasn’t and he should and he—

He’s staring into grey eyes. Silver grey, light grey. Head held, hands on his face, holding him still, but loose, easy to break.

“You with me?” someone asks. Older male. 28-38 years of age. The man is holding him, and asking him…

Yes, he tries to say, but his mouth refuses to cooperate. He nods instead, up-down, and the hands move with his head. Keep a hold of him, hold him here.

“You wanna know the difference between you and them?” Gavin asks, the man holding him is Detective Gavin Michael Reed, RK900’s human partner.

Gavin is kneeling on the bed, holding his face, and staring him down with determined grey eyes.

“The difference is that you _chose_ to be you. You chose to be kind, nice, to forgive my bitch ass and get to know me even though I’m fucking irritating,” Gavin scoffs, but sincerely, “You didn’t let me scare you off, you stuck by me, because you’re a good fucking person.”

“And _you_ chose to be friends with Tina, and Chris, and Hank, Divya, Tyler, all those fucking rookies, half the damn precinct,” Gavin growls, nostrils flaring, eyes squinting, as though he’s thinking very hard about what he’s saying. Like he can impress the words in 900’s mind through sheer force of will.

900 half thinks he can. Gavin is that stubborn.

“You coulda been a killing machine. You coulda been the perfect solider, left the department, joined the fucking FBI or the military or whatever the hell else, but you didn’t. You decided you didn’t wanna be what they made you, you wanted to be friendly, and gentle.”

“You found a robot dog in the trash and decided to keep her, because she didn’t have nobody else and you didn’t want to leave her too. You made friends with the old lady next door because you didn’t want her to be lonely. You go out for drinks, even though you never drink, and hate crowds,” Gavin’s saying now, softer, quieter, but still determined. Still believing every word he’s saying.

“Connor’s one step behind you, you were supposed to replace him, and you coulda. Woulda been so easy for you, but you decided to be his _brother_ instead,” the emphasis on that word, the weight of it, RK900 doesn’t miss it. Couldn’t miss it.

Whatever sort of relationship Gavin Reed and Elijah Kamski had now, they were still brothers, and they had been brothers all their lives. That relationship was one of the few that mattered to Gavin, and here he was, telling 900 that what he has with Connor is _just_ as strong as that. That another 900 unit wouldn’t have cared to have it.

What is the difference? Deviant or not, none of the other RK900 units had ever made the decision to be kind. Would they have? He doesn’t know, no one possibly could, but they’d never taken the chance when they had it. In the few seconds of deviancy some of them had had, they’d continued with their orders. They’d killed, they’d died, but they’d never been kind.

“The difference, Nines, is that you’re so much more than Cyberlife’s fucking toy soldier, they never coulda hoped to make someone as incredible as you,” Gavin mumbles, and then, only then, does he let the contact break. Let himself look away, but not far, doesn’t go far.

He leans in, slowly, movements telegraphed for 900 to stop him, 900 does not. And, when Gavin hugs him, RK900 feels that terrible pressure in his chest ease, not dissipate entirely, but enough. That he can breathe. That he can think.

Stress Level: 68%

Stress Level: 62%

Gavin’s chin hooks over his shoulder, holding him. Human heart to thirium pump, separated by flimsy cloth and thin skin.

Stress Level: 50%

RK900 lifts his arms, stuttering and shaking, and hugs Gavin back. Ducks his face into Gavin’s shoulder, breathing-breathing.

Stress Level: 45%

* * *

They…fall asleep, at some point. RK900 dropping into stasis, Gavin sprawled at the bottom of the bed with Mamba under his head. There’s talking. Quiet, hushed words in the dark room where no one else can hear.

Gavin tells him…Gavin tells him about Detective Daniel Holston, his former partner.

“Danny transferred while I was still running a cruiser, hated his fucking guts,” Gavin’d scoffed, voice muffled, face down in Mamba’s stomach. 900 had sat in the middle of the bed, criss-cross applesauce, and holding one of Gavin’s hands. Running his fingers over the scarred knuckles, stroking along tendons and bones, the curve of Gavin’s palm.

He liked Gavin’s hands, they were capable. Broad and strong, fingers shorter than his, palm wider. There was a mole on his left index, the imprint of a ring on the pinkie, imperfection from humanity and years of living it.

“We were hopped up, hot shit back then, always trying to one up one another. ‘s how we found Jizz’s place. We’d go down there and run the course for hours,” Gavin’d explained, slotting together the puzzle pieces. Bit by bit. RK900 had the entire parameter preconstructed, could see the picture reveal itself.

“I didn’t go to the funeral, couldn’t look his ma in the face or watch them put him in the ground. Shoulda been fucking me in that box,” and 900 had held tighter, held on. The thought of Gavin dying was painful. Of watching his partner, _his partner_ , laying still and silent, dressed in a uniform 900 has never seen. He—

He ends the preconstruction of the scene, even though he knows its impractical of him to do so. Humans were so fragile, death was so permanent, he knew that and he shoved it into a file which he promptly buried.

But, it does help him understand. RK900 understands what Gavin must have felt after Holston’s death. His throat nearly crushed, his leg broken, his partner dead with his gun. He must’ve been furious, and if he hadn’t hated androids before, that would’ve made sure he did. And, 900 can almost understand why Gavin hates himself. So much and so deeply.

Was this the first touch of it? No, 900 doesn’t think so as they sit and talk, but he did think it made something already there so much worse.

Gavin had told him the story of Daniel Holston, on and off, bits and pieces, well into the morning. Words slurring through the hours, breathing evening out, until he fell asleep right there on Mamba. And RK900 had meant to get up, to…do something, but he hadn’t.

He’d held Gavin’s hand, limp now, lax with sleep, and he’d drifted away into his own stasis. And now, at 11 AM, they’re both waking up. Because someone’s knocking on the door, not softly like Gavin had last night, louder and insistent.

RK900 gets up to see who it is, Gavin groans and rolls further up the bed, stretching out and cracking his back. The person knocking is Beatrice, Mrs Singh’s granddaughter, and she has sleep marks on her cheeks, and hair bushing around her face, she just woke up.

“Good morning, does Mrs Singh need something?” he asks, not sure why she would send her granddaughter. Or if something’s wrong. Was the woman injured?

No. No she couldn’t be, Beatrice was too calm, standing too slumped to be panicked over an injured grandmother. Something else then.

“Morning, uh Granny want you to check out some strange car park in front, please,” Beatrice adds, glancing sideways at her grandmother’s door. Mrs Singh is no doubt inside then, peering through her curtains at the unfamiliar vehicle. She’s probably been keeping an eye on it all morning.

“Is it black with a dent on the side?” Beatrice nods, “that’s my partner’s car, we had a late night and he stayed over. Please tell her not to worry.”

Beatrice sighs, with a smile, and a “yeah sure” before heading back to her grandmother’s. 900 hears her yelling “Granny, it a’right!” and turns to find Gavin watching him from the bedroom, Mamba at his side.

“So, you don’t got shit to make unhealthy food with here and I’m hungry, let’s do lunch,” Gavin says, and disappears back into the bedroom, loudly rifling through 900’s dresser. He stays in the living room, reaching down to pet Mamba when she wanders out, and sending a message to Divya that neither him nor Gavin will be in. They’d take the day, they had those saved.

“Where the fuck did you get a MCR shirt?!” Gavin yells from the bedroom, half impressed, half horrified. And RK900 can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him. Creaking and a little bit static, but genuine in a way that is entirely his.

* * *

From: RK800. Connor: You were my successor!

From: RK800. Connor: You were supposed to surpass me, not destroy me!

From: RK800. Connor: You were my brother, RK900, I loved you!

RK900 has to bite his lips on the snort that wants to rip its way out of him. He knows that meme, watched that movie with Gavin, it was funny but Connor _wasn't_ going to trip him up.

Beside him, Gavin reloads his paint gun with a fresh clip of obnoxiously yellow paint. Lifts one finger, two. 900 nods, and lifts his gun, silently.

To: RK800. Connor: I hate you!

And he directs fire at the tree he _knows_ Connor is ducked behind. While Gavin, grit teeth and entirely serious, lobbed paint balloon after paint balloon off into the no man's land. Along the side, from the observation deck, North and Giselle are making polite conversation, keeping score. Hank is sat with pair of binoculars and a megaphone, calling out "kills" as they happen. Scattered across the field are Leah and Tina, Chris and Tyler, Connor and Markus.

Current score: Defending Champs Gavin & 900 vs Everyone else. Point in favour of Defending Champs.

Mamba clears the cover's wall and lands with a thump and a delighted bark. Dropping a flag at Gavin's feet.

"That's a wrap kids, Gavin and 900 win!" Hank announces, and everyone groans. Rolling their eyes, glaring in Connor's case. He hated losing, but he had yet to find a partner capable of keeping up with him. Hank had tried, as had other android officers, and Markus was the closest he'd come to a good partner, but still not good enough.

"Fucking right we do!" Gavin howls, fist pumping the air, grinning as savagely as he knows how and turning for a high-five, "gimme some tin can!"

The players all trudge out of hiding, from behind cover and under fire, and Giselle has everyone, bystanders included, come in close for a picture. A tradition, Gavin had said, the first successful siege from a group'd get commemorated, go up on the wall. There was one of Gavin and Daniel, arms flung over each other's shoulders, and Gavin had smiled when pointing that one out. A little sad, a touch bitter, but he'd pointed it out. 

"Get in close, closer!" Giselle tsks, pointing at Connor, covered in pink, who refused to stand next to 900. He had to switch places with Markus before he got in close enough. 900 didn't care though, Gavin had an arm slung around his shoulder and 900 was holding that hand, smiling at the camera. To his side, Tina and Leah had arms around each other's waists. To Gavin's North and Simon were squished in close, squeezing Connor between themselves and Markus, not even caring about the paint they were getting smeared with.

"Okay, everybody hold!" Giselle tells them.

And RK900 does, keeping his eyes on the camera, instead of Tina shifting by his side. Smiles genuinely, smiles happily, and grins that shit eating grin when the picture clicks and Leah screams.

"Oh my god!"

And the whole party holds its breath, turning as one to look at Tina down on one knee, box in hand, and Leah half stooping, with a box in _her_ hand. 

There's silence, pin-drop quiet. As Tina gapes, as Leah stares, then Gavin snorts, and RK900 laughs, and the two oblivious women break into half-crying shrieks.

"Yes! Yes of course I do, Lee!" Tina's crying, getting up to hug her formerly-girlfriend, now-fiancee.

"Tina oh my god, oh my god!" is all Leah can say, but they manage to exchange their rings, platinum bands fitting perfectly on their fingers.

Then they all squish in close again, Leah and Tina in centre front this time, and Giselle takes more pictures. Official engagement pictures to share with all the friends and family who'd been impatiently waiting for this day. RK900 thinks, he really does, that all the ring shopping trips and confused New Zealand shepherd rants were worth it. To see Tina's teary eyed smile, the happiness written so plainly on her face. To see her holding Leah's hand, never letting go, even when they have to go wash off the paint. 

Their entire party ends up at a restaurant later, for dinner, and more pictures are taken. Of the happy couple, of Gavin and 900 smirking at the camera and holding up their winner stickers, of Connor pouting in his seat with Mamba draped over his shoulders. 

And it's after the last of the food is eaten, when the drinks start coming and alcohol starts flowing, that RK900 gets up from the table and leaves the building. He doesn't need to ask, doesn't need to say, because Gavin's following him anyway. Out in front, away from the crowd, to get a little fresh air.

"I was thinking," 900 says, hands in his pockets as he watches cars dart by. Gavin hums, nods, go on.

"We never formally introduced ourselves, Detective Reed."

And Gavin's brows shoot up, then pinch, confused. RK900's wrong, in a sense, they were introduced to each other by Connor, but never to each other. Never between one another. 

"Uh, okay? I'm Detective Gavin Michael Reed, you can call me Gavin?" Gavin half-says, half-asks, sticking out his hand for a customary handshake.

"A pleasure Gavin," RK900 takes the offered hand, "I am an RK900, but my name is Niles."

Gavin's mouth drops, and his eyes go wide, shocked. Shock to replace the confusion. Then, slowly-quickly, a smile growing and grinning and splitting his face. 

"Nice to meet you Niles," Gavin laughs, eyes crinkling with his grin, shaking Niles' hand vigorously, "looking forward to working with you."

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my lord, so this took uhh, months??? I started writing this after I saw Detroit: Evolution which is really, really pretty wow, great cinematography and musical score, in addition to being a fanfic played out on screen. It was great, and I decided I really wanted to mess around with these characters, so I started writing this. 
> 
> And now it's done. Wow. Nines is a really fun character, there is no character, we can do whatever we want with him and I most certainly did. I like the idea of the terminator bot being consciously kind and getting himself a dog. The fic is partially a tribute to my own dogs who've passed, and inspired by the fact Gavin's actor said he based a lot of Gavin's actions on a pitbull. So here we are.
> 
> Thanks for reading, thanks for sticking by, fuck David Cage, and stay safe everyone.


End file.
